


Et Praevalebit

by Thea_Bromine



Series: Et Praevalebit [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, BDSM, M/M, Sexual Content, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 47
Words: 129,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thea_Bromine/pseuds/Thea_Bromine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Magna est veritas, et praevalebit.” (1 Esdras 3)</p><p>When Xander ignores all common sense and warnings, the cost is much higher than any of the Scoobies ever expected. It’s Giles who exacts payment from him – but why, and what is the cost to Giles himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Giles 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is rather larger than I normally write: 129,000 words, in 47 chapters. This is my Slave!Xander fix, and as such won’t be to everybody’s liking – that is, assuming it’s to anybody’s liking. What’s in it? Angst, a dodgy nightclub, slavery, angst, strange other worlds, demons, angst, Slave!Xander, Bewildered!Giles, angst, home made pizza, the military draft, angst, branding, nausea, faintness, angst, financial ruin, abjuration, Angry!Wesley, angst, Scotland, midges, angst, a Friesian horse, selkies, angst, armour, quarrelling, angst, Resentful!Giles, Mature!Xander, angst, fishing rights, Xander's Plan, Giles’ Plan, angst, and a happy ending. Really. 
> 
> Warnings – Yes. Pay attention, people. M/M sex, although everybody is of age. Some consensual BDSM. Some not totally consensual BDSM but not the way you would think. Some genuine non-consensual slavery. Some physical torture, and I’m serious about that. If you’re underage wherever you are, go away. If you’re very squeamish, this isn’t for you. (If you’re just a bit squeamish, you’ll be O.K. reading from behind the sofa and skipping over the bad bits. There’s only one really nasty event and I’ll tell you when it’s coming.)
> 
> Please note: this is AU from some unspecified point. I looked at canon, and then left in, or took out, whatever I pleased, without reference to anything much. The only significant point is that Xander has two eyes. 
> 
> British spelling because this is going to be big and I couldn’t maintain anything else through it even if I wanted to, which I don’t, and because a lot of it is going to take place in Britain. I had Ameripicking and editing help from Ivyhedera and specific Californian, corporate legal and land rights information from Whichclothes, for both of which I’m grateful; neither of them is responsible for the places I simply ignored their advice. 
> 
> The characters you recognise belonged originally to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The demons and nightclub denizens you don’t belong to me.
> 
> Specific chapter warnings: squabbling and childishness.

“What I _don’t_ see,” said Xander, furiously, “is how it’s any of your business.”

Giles, as usual, was polishing his glasses, and not looking at anybody.

“Xander, as, as far as your personal relationships go, of course it isn’t my business. I, I don’t want it to be my business. All I’m saying is, is that there is no point in pretending that your personal relationship doesn’t affect what we do, and that we, that we, that you need to have a little more care than perhaps other people would do in _forming_ those personal relationships. It cannot be denied that _all_ our personal relationships have, have... Buffy and Angel. Jenny and me. Willow and Oz. You and, and...” He fought down the temptation to continue “and several demons.”

“Yeah, I _get_ that. But I don’t get why you’re pushing about Chad when you’ve never bothered about...” He cast Giles a hurt look. “Is it just that he’s a guy?”

Giles winced. “That would be rather hypocritical on my part, don’t you think?” He kept his eyes on his glasses and handkerchief. “I am perfectly well aware that you,” he glanced round at the others, who were wearing unconvincing expressions of ‘not listening to Giles and Xander quarrel, not having opinions about anything,’ “that you have all wondered about the precise nature of my relationship with Ethan. Or Philip, or, or any of the others of my male acquaintances whose histories you know. And yes, you are perfectly correct. No, Xander, I am not in any way concerned that you should have formed a relationship with another man. I am a little concerned that you have formed a relationship with that _particular_ man.” 

He knew the moment the words were out of his mouth that he had made a mistake. He _knew_ that there was going to be nothing he could say about his objection to Xander's boyfriend that wouldn’t come over either as Previous Generation Who Doesn’t Understand or Previous Friend With Nose Out of Joint. And after all, what argument could he muster? He _didn’t_ like Chad, he simply didn’t _like_ the man, and he had no coherent objection to be expressed. He couldn’t possibly say that Chad made slightly too many jokey comments to and about Giles that weren’t quite jokes. He couldn’t say that when Chad said something about Giles being a boring librarian type, there was more of an edge to it than when Buffy said it, or Xander himself. He couldn’t say that when Chad asked why somebody like Giles hung around with three people less than half his age, and with whom he ostensibly had nothing in common except involvement years ago in a school that no longer existed, Giles heard something other than innocent enquiry. He _heard_ , he was certain, pointed hints, never quite verbalised: faint suggestions of a slightly _off_ relationship. Little digs: loser, pervert, dirty old man. Those had hung about him since he had begun a relationship with Buffy and her friends; those little cracks at his reputation were not new and he had long since learned to ignore them. He didn’t have to like them, particularly not from someone who didn’t have the excuse of an adult observing potential risks to minors.

He couldn’t say anything about the hints because he knew that nobody else would have heard them. Anything they heard would have gone through their heads as teasing, of the sort they did themselves: just affectionate badinage.

 He absolutely couldn’t say that although they all assured him that Chad knew nothing about what he had never managed to make them call something other than ‘slayage’, he always felt that Chad knew more than he was letting on.

No, he _didn’t_ like the man. He didn’t _trust_ the man. He was damn certain that Chad was mocking him, very subtly, all the time, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like the fact that Chad hung on Xander; he disliked their constant physical contact. It made his skin crawl and he didn’t know why, although he didn’t think it was just a generational thing, or his inability to overcome normal British reserve. And he was damn sure that Chad knew that Giles didn’t like him – and that Chad disliked Giles just as much.

None of which, even he had to admit, was a good enough reason for Xander to break off the relationship. There was something wrong with it; Giles was convinced of that. Unfortunately although Buffy referred to Slayer instincts – well, usually she referred to her Spidey sense, and Giles pretended not to know what she meant – and they all took her seriously, nobody seemed nearly as impressed by, or inclined to take note of, Watcher instincts. Watcher instincts were viewed, he thought sourly, as nothing more than Giles trying to stop everybody having any fun. It never seemed to occur to them that perhaps Watcher instincts were a mixture of fundamental knowledge, years of training, and genuine observation, putting up correct answers without bothering to explain the reasoning line by line.

“Giles?” interposed Willow quietly. “Giles, you don’t think it might just be... Chad’s very... He looks rather like... You know, another tall dark brooding type. You don’t think maybe you’re...” She waved her hands vaguely. “Transposing or transferring, or whatever? Because honestly? I like Chad. Buffy likes Chad. Xander,” with a grin at her friend, “likes Chad. And...” She wrinkled her nose, and then plainly gathered her courage and made a rush at what she needed to say. “Giles, honestly? It’s not like it’s anybody’s business except Xander's.”

He could think of nothing further to say, and shrugged helplessly. If they wouldn’t listen, they wouldn’t. He picked up his tea cup.

“We’re going out on Friday,” said Xander, rather more defiantly than Giles thought the words warranted. “To Serpentine.”

Giles choked on his tea; Buffy thumped his between the shoulders, a little harder than was comfortable.

“Xander, I honestly think that’s a bad...”

“Yeah, but we’ve just established that it isn’t _any of your business_.” That had an edge usually absent from Xander's conversation. “My _boyfriend_ and I are going to a _nightclub_ , Giles, and I’m sick of this conversation, I’m sick of you trying to control my life. You are _not_ the Watcher of me, Giles, you are not my father, you are not my boss, you are not my owner, _you do not get a vote_. If I want to go out with my boyfriend, I’m going, and you don’t get to forbid it, or judge it, or, or, or try to ground me or cut off my allowance or whatever kid thing you’re thinking about.” He was all but shouting, and Giles winced. “I’m an adult, and if I want to go to a club with my _boyfriend_ , I will.”

“And a tantrum is certain to convince me of your maturity,” Giles snapped back, and regretted it at once; Xander made a sound of fury and turned, slamming the door behind him; Buffy refused to look up, concentrating unconvincingly on the tome in front of her and pretending not to notice anything, and Willow cast Giles a reproachful glance and went after Xander.

Giles retreated to the kitchen, where he tipped out the dregs of his cold tea and made some fresh. Serpentine? Watcher instincts were more than uneasy about that: Watcher instincts were hopping up and down, waving flags and blowing whistles to get his attention. Serpentine he knew about but something in the combination of Serpentine, Xander and Chad brought the hair up on the back of Giles’ neck.

He would need to make another attempt to talk to Xander, and this time it would have to be without Buffy and Willow present.

That in itself proved difficult; Xander avoided Giles for two days, not even very discreetly: Giles entered a room, Xander broke off what he was saying to Buffy or Willow or anybody else, and left it. Xander came into a room in which Giles was already ensconced, took one look at Giles, muttered something, and ducked out again.

Giles hated it. He was uneasy at his inability to connect with Xander; he was unhappy at the rift in their relationship. Buffy blustered and pretended nothing was wrong; Willow gave him mournful glances.

Chad, he thought, was slyly triumphant.

On the third day, he managed to catch Xander in the kitchen, without a barrier in the form of a third party. He felt guilty at shutting the door and setting his back against it, but no other ideas had occurred to him, and he was becoming desperate.

“Xander, I, I, I need to talk to you.”

Xander's expression was a mixture of unease and defiance. “If it’s about Chad, I don’t want to hear it.”

Giles shook his head. That battle was lost and he knew it. “It’s, it’s about Serpentine. Xander, I know that you, that you think I’m, I’m...”

“Interfering, Giles. I think you’re interfering in something that’s none of your business.”

He looked away and bit down _hard_ on his temper, on his desire to box Xander’s ears, to get his attention _properly_ , to remind him that Giles had nearly thirty years of experience that Xander did not have, to ask for a certain amount of respect, to...

“But obviously you’re not going to be satisfied until you’ve told me _again_ that you know best and I know nothing, so you’d better get on with it.”

How had they got into this mess? How had they reached a point at which – at which they had nothing connecting them any more? Was it just that they had grown up, and he had – as Xander seemed to think – failed to notice it? He had thought that they were a family, in everything that mattered, that the petty disagreements and quarrels meant nothing in the light of shared experiences and loyalties. Well, if they were a family, it was at least as dysfunctional as any of their birth families had ever been. He took a deep breath, and plunged.

“Do you actually know what Serpentine is?”

“Yes,” said Xander flatly. “It’s a BDSM club. What about it?”

Well, that was... not so much of a surprise, actually. For all Giles complained that nobody listened to him, they had learned enough to take nothing for granted, and to ask about new things ahead of time. No. Not a surprise that Xander knew. A surprise that Xander would be interested in such a thing, but Giles had more sense than to express that.

“I, I wasn’t certain that you were aware.”

“Well, I _am_ , Giles. What about it?”

He opened his mouth to snap back, thought better of it and gripped hard at his self-control.

“Xander, do you think you could... Please will you try to understand that I am not intending to criticise you?”

Xander looked away. “Sounds like it from over here.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m, I’m concerned. I want to have, to have an adult conversation with you. I will try not to sound critical if you, if you could try not to be quite so defensive.”

Xander actually met his eyes for a long moment, and then nodded once, pulled a stool from under the table, and perched on it. “Go on.”

Well, it was a start. Giles picked his words with extreme care. “All right. You know what Serpentine is, and, and I’m reassured by that. I’m... I’m not trying to be, to tell you what to do, Xander. You’ve made it quite clear that you don’t want that from me. I’m not, as you pointed out, _your_ Watcher. I hoped I was your friend.”

Xander looked away again. “Thought you were.”

“Then won’t you allow me to do what a friend does, and be concerned about you?”

“Don’t need to be. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you? Really? Have you – forgive me, Xander, I know you would prefer not to have this conversation with me but... Have you done it before?”

The bright colour running up Xander's face answered that for him.

“Is it... Is it something _you_ want, or something Chad does, or something you both do?” He added hastily, “It’s not prurient interest, Xander. I. I realise that you would prefer not to know, but I have done that sort of thing myself in the past, I’m not shocked by it. I’ve seen people get into trouble doing it, though, and I care about you enough to want to be sure that, that you’re not being pressured into something you don’t really want, and that you know how to keep yourself safe.”

Xander was silent, and Giles added, still gently, “Xander, I’m not asking for details. You’ve made it more than clear that your relationship is not my concern. Please, though, will, will you, can you tell me that I needn’t be worried about you? About your safety.”

Xander examined his hands for a moment. “Look,” he blurted suddenly, “it’s not your business, O.K.? But yeah, I get that we’ve been – that we’ve got history. So... I dunno if it’s my thing or not. I really don’t. I’ve never tried. I’m... it’s... I’m interested.”

“The standard word, I believe,” said Giles, hiding his relief, as if they were discussing the weather, “is ‘curious’. That implies inexperience, matched with interest, and a willingness to experiment, on the understanding that after the experiment, the answer may be no.”

Xander snorted. “Yeah, that about covers it. I’m willing to have a go. O.K., Chad’s into that and he...” he ground to a halt again, and Giles was quick to reassure.

“Chad’s personal life is certainly not my concern, but as I said, I’m not shocked by any of it. Very well, he’s into it, and in that case, it’s entirely natural that he would encourage your curiosity. Have you, have you discussed the possibility that you might find you _don’t_ like it?”

“Yes,” said Xander, a little defiantly again. “I’ve promised to, to keep an open mind. He’s promised that if it doesn’t work for me, he won’t push.”

“That’s, that’s good. And you, you’ve discussed such things as safe-words?”

“Green, yellow, red. Unoriginal, but...”

“But not something you’re likely to forget in a panic, and not likely to be misunderstood. I, I truly am... Good, good. Thank you. I’ll, I’ll not push any further. Xander, I really am sorry if you thought that I was interfering. If I _was_ interfering. But we do, as you said, have history. I do worry about you. About you all. I only want what’s good for you, and I, I admit I may not always express that well.” His hand went automatically to his pocket, to produce his handkerchief, and he removed his spectacles.

“You still don’t like it,” observed Xander, shrewdly.

He did not. He still disliked and distrusted Chad, but there was no point in saying so. “I, ah, I am uneasy in my mind about Serpentine. Not about the concept but about the organisation itself. I can’t tell you why.”

Xander fidgeted. “Would – what about – I could make you my phone buddy? You know, if I haven’t called you by a certain time the next morning, you come looking for me? Used to do that with Willow, when I was dating guys first; I’d let them know that somebody would be making a fuss if I didn’t check in with a codeword.”

He nodded. “It’s a good idea,” and one he had never used himself, even when it might have been a literal lifesaver. “I, I won’t insist that it’s me, Xander, if you and Willow have had an agreement, but please will you, if you’re going to go to that club, please will you set it up again?”

He waited only for Xander's nod, before smiling faintly – and rather sadly – and leaving Xander alone in the kitchen. He knew enough to quit while he was ahead. For all that, he was not happy: he was not happy about Serpentine, and he was not happy that he couldn’t – quite – put his finger on what he had seen or heard that made him suspicious of it.

Well, there was a cure for that, he thought: research.

And after the research he was even less happy than he had been before. Serpentine, he found, _ought_ to have an unhealthy reputation – and didn’t. He didn’t understand why it didn’t. He had wondered about asking Willow to dig a little in the computerised records that he understood so little, and had decided against it; he had spent some time himself among the microfiche records available to the public, and among the back copies of local newspapers. He had called friends of friends... well, no, of acquaintances, and had hoped that Buffy never came to hear that he even _had_ such acquaintances. Her complaints when anything suggested that Giles was a human male with a sexual history some of which was recent, were always couched as jokes, and somehow always came over as not-quite-jokes. When he mentioned the possibility of a relationship, she always looked uneasy, and for all that he knew that _she_ knew of his bisexuality, he had never said anything to her that would suggest that he still, on occasion, had sex with a man. He thought she would prefer to be able not to know that; he was _certain_ that she would prefer not to know that his encounters with men were hurried, impersonal, and frequently in such insalubrious locations as motels, alleys behind bars, and dingy clubs. He was careful of his physical health; his emotional health was as damaged as it had ever been.

However, the result was that he knew slightly unsuitable people, who knew other slightly unsuitable people, and the occasional ostensibly casual question about clubs in general and Serpentine in particular... was research, of a kind.

He was more than a little uneasy by what he discovered. Over the past three years, seven club members had been listed as missing persons, and none of them had ever reappeared. Very well, Giles thought; such clubs were filled with individuals, many of whom were living under names that were not the ones on their birth certificates. Lifestyle choices could be remade; people moved on. And there was no denying that the sexual underbelly of any city was not necessarily the safest place to live. Nonetheless, seven missing persons... made him uncomfortable, and the realisation that although the search for those missing persons had been carried out in all the usual ways, the fact that they were all linked through a single club never seemed to have reached the public eye. It was, of course, possible that the police were aware of it and were keeping it quiet for reasons of their own, but...

It felt ‘off’. Just ‘off’, and he had nothing more to go on. He had researched the individuals and could see no common characteristics other than their involvement with Serpentine. Three women, four men. Four straight, two gay, one bisexual. Oldest twenty-eight, youngest twenty-two. One Domme, four Subs, two Switches.

All, if their newspaper photographs were anything to go by, attractive.

And all gone.  


	2. Giles 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: mild consensual BDSM.

He let things ride for three weeks before his discomfort outweighed his discretion, before he found himself absolutely _unable_ to leave matters alone any longer. Then it was only a matter of applying for a membership card at Serpentine, and asking a few discreet questions to discover what had changed since the days in which he had belonged to such clubs as a matter of course. He spent some time in front of his wardrobe, considering the contents; rather a lot of things hadn't changed at all, or so he was told, but he had examined himself in the mirror for several minutes, getting a grip on what he actually looked like _now_ , rather than remembering how he had looked twenty years ago, and then he had pushed aside the leather jacket, the tight tee shirt, the black denims and the boots. He could, he thought, a little resentfully, probably still carry it off – but he wanted to be seen, to be interesting to other members. He wanted to be a little out of the ordinary.

The young woman checking membership cards eyed him up and down, and smiled at him.

“First time in?”

He inclined his head, and she rattled, at some speed, through the House Rules. He listened carefully.

“Much the same as the other places I’ve been,” he observed. She looked interested.

“Are you _English_?”

He nodded, allowing his amusement to show. “Is it a problem?”

“No,” she said frankly; “might be a selling point, though?” Her eyes flickered over him; he saw her spot the short black strap hanging from his belt loop. “Boys or girls?”

He shrugged. “Either.”

“You wanna look round by yourself, that’s cool, but if you felt like it, you could ask Mike at the main bar to point out Vanna to you. She’d like your style. Couple of the boys would, too: Marcus, I think, and maybe Ryan. Just a suggestion, no guarantees, no harm, no foul, yeah?”

“No harm in looking,” he agreed, slipping her a folded bill. No harm either in having somebody showing him goodwill. “And you are?”

She was Lucy and she would remember him; he would remember her as a source of information if he found nothing more suitable.

He did simply slide around the outskirts of the place for some considerable time. It was large: an industrial unit divided up into rooms; a couple of bars, a couple of semi-private rooms, a wall of what appeared to be hardly more than cubicles. A dance floor; he wasn’t stupid enough to go near that.

Three, no, four playrooms, open to an audience. He watched two couples in one of them for a quarter of an hour, establishing the manner in which things were done here. He moved on to the bar.

“Are you Mike? Lucy suggested that you might point out Vanna to me, or... Ryan, would it have been?”

“I’m Ryan,” said a voice at his elbow, “and Lucy has _good_ taste. Are you _English_?”

He could see the question becoming tiresome quite quickly, but he nodded. Ryan was, he thought, a little older than he appeared; he had the sort of round face that would keep him looking juvenile until he was thirty, but Giles thought he must be nearly that now.

“Drink?”

Ryan nodded at the barman, who picked up a glass, obviously familiar with what Ryan usually had; then he looked at Giles himself.

“Tonic water, please. Ice, no lemon.” He glanced at Ryan. “I don’t drink if I think I might play.”

“You looking to play?”

“I wasn’t intending to, not tonight. I came in mainly to see what sort of place it was, what sort of people came in. I’d rather have a look around and get a feel for the atmosphere than rush into anything. Still, you know, I might. If I connect with somebody. If we can agree terms.” He could see from the corner of his eye, that the barman was listening. Well, good. If the place was on the level, then it was only right that the staff should keep an ear open for what was going on, and be aware of new people and what they were doing. If it _wasn’t_ on the level – and he still had absolutely no evidence that it wasn’t, other than a Watcher’s instinct going off like a klaxon in his mind – then in all likelihood the barman would be in on it, and Giles, as an incomer, would either be a potential victim – and he thought he could deal with that and look after himself well enough – or somebody who would have to be kept away from whatever the big secret was – and he thought he would know if they were hiding things from him.

“So you know my name – but I don’t know yours,” Ryan pointed out. “Unless you like to be called Daddy?”

He shook his head. “Not my thing. I’m Rupert.” He waited a beat, for Ryan to open his mouth – Rupert, he knew, was a sufficiently uncommon name in America that everybody _always_ commented – and added smoothly, before the comment could come, “but you may call me Sir.”

It got a little shiver and he smiled inwardly; it was gratifying to know that he still had it. He fixed his most Senior Librarian glance on Ryan. “And are _you_ looking to play, Ryan?”

He got a knowing smile in return. “If I can connect with somebody. And agree on terms.” Ryan sipped his drink and added, more abruptly, “The connection’s the important thing. I’m choosy – I’d rather go home without playing than just get picked up for the sake of it. I’ll take the visuals – I like to watch – and some nights that just has to be enough, you know?” Then, more abruptly yet, “I play here, I don’t go outside, I don’t go home with people. Not with people I don’t know.”

“Neither do I, and as I said, I’m not certain that I’m going to play at all. But I like to watch, too.” He tilted his glass, his eyes on the ice cubes. “If you’ve been here before, presumably you know who – and what – is worth watching?”

And Ryan rose delightfully to the bait. “Could show you, if you wanted?”

“I would like that – if you didn’t mind spending some time with no guarantee of a return.”

“No guarantee of a return for you either. Sir.” There was just enough of a cheeky glance in that ‘sir’ to make it obvious that Ryan was willing at least to _consider_ something more.

“Then perhaps we should both, ah, speculate to accumulate? No promises either way.”

“Yeah, I’m up for that. So what’s your thing, Rupert?”

He pretended to have to consider, although this much he had already planned. “Show me what they do best here. And who does it.”

He was faintly surprised, at the end of a couple of hours, to find that he had enjoyed himself. Ryan was entertaining, and intelligent – and wickedly observant: generally good company and also exactly what Giles had wanted to find. He was also well known; Giles noticed that everywhere he went, somebody would greet him, and he was secretly amused to find that on several occasions, he was given delicate warnings to be nice to the younger man – or to leave him alone.

He saw nothing untoward – nothing untoward for, he amended mentally, a BDSM club of large membership with widely differing interests.

He did notice – with, again, some amusement – that as the evening progressed, Ryan’s shoulder came closer to his own; Ryan’s hand was on his arm frequently; when he spoke to other members and they commented on his accent (which they _all_ , or so it felt, did), Ryan responded along the lines of how cool it was. At one point he glanced sideways and flickered an eyebrow; Ryan shrugged, and grinned. “It _is_ cool, Rupert. The accent and the suit – we don’t get many men come in here with the tie and the vest and the cufflinks, all dressed up like they’re going to meet the President. We get bears here, and bikers and brats and leatherboys and ladyboys and all the rest, never mind what the girls are like, but I don’t remember us ever seeing an English aristocrat with the poise and the voice and the clothes, before.”

He allowed his amusement to show. “I don’t claim to be an aristocrat.”

“But you can put on the show? Could go for that, you know. English aristocrat and, and...”

And why not? Ryan had been pleasant and good company, hadn't tried to push him into anything, and really deserved some sort of reward for his time. So, damn it, did Giles.  

“And insolent young man? Careless secretary?” he cocked the eyebrow again. “Wicked Sir Rupert has a short way with careless young men.”

He saw the little shiver again. “What does he do?”

“Oh, he gives them a choice: they can pack and go, without a character – a reference. Or they can go across his knee. Very undignified. If he’s really annoyed, he uses his strap.”

“Does he, ah...”

Very well. They were going to negotiate terms. “Not the first time. I’d rather do too little than too much, specially to begin with. Subsequent encounters? See where they go, but the first time, as you said yourself, the connection is the important thing. Would you like to tell me what you want in a player? And what you _don’t_ do?”

It seemed that very little had changed in twenty years as far as what people wanted; the only differences were in the matter of caution over health. Ryan’s safe-words were memorable, his hard limits were reasonable and sensible and frankly, on a first encounter, Giles wasn’t going anywhere near them; they moved on around the room, each of them, he thought, with an increased awareness of the other.

They ended up a corner that contained a small coffee bar, and a selection of chairs and sofas of various types, several of which were occupied by couples or small groups. They stopped to watch a brief scene between a tall, very thin woman and a man with multiple piercings, some of them in places that made Giles wince, and when the couple moved away, Ryan nudged at Giles’ arm.

“Could we...?”

It was open enough to be safe, and out of the way enough that although they would have an audience, it wasn’t of a size to be disconcerting. Giles shut his eyes for a moment to find the person he was when he played. Not Ripper: Ryan wanted Wicked Sir Rupert, who was largely a cartoon character, but after all, it was only a means to an end.

“Have you chosen what you’re going to do?” he enquired coldly. “I am most displeased with you, young man. Most displeased. Your carelessness is absolutely unacceptable. I am prepared – against my better judgment – to give you _one_ more chance, but that chance comes with an associated price. If you decide to stay, you will pay that price so that I can be assured that you will remember such deplorable behaviour will not be tolerated.”

Ryan fidgeted, eyes cast meekly downward. “No sir. I mean, yes sir. I mean, I do want to stay, and I’ll do... I’ll pay... whatever it takes.” He gave Giles a look so imploring that Giles had to turn away and cough to stop himself laughing. “I’m really very sorry, sir.”

“You’ll be a lot sorrier soon,” promised Giles; so much of the scene dialogue was hackneyed in the extreme, but – possibly _because_ it was so commonly used in the various soft-porn media – it did also bring about the desired results. “Come here.”

Ryan came, all innocent eyes and quivering lip. Giles seated himself, and indicated Ryan’s khakis. “Drop them and get over my knee.” He watched impassively as Ryan unfastened button and zip, adding ominously, “I’ll allow you to keep your briefs, but if I hear any lip, any lip at all, those will come down too, is that clear?” He was conscious that there were people watching; Ryan hadn't said anything about nudity, although it had been plain enough over the course of the evening that it was acceptable practice in the club. This way, control was left with Ryan, although they could both pretend that it rested with Giles.

He had forgotten the buzz of having a strong body stretched across his legs, and automatically his right hand caressed from shoulder blades to waist. He shifted slightly, making sure that Ryan had his balance, and was reasonably comfortable. Giles knew from bitter experience that cramp, or a knee in just the wrong place under the ribs, could make it impossible for a sub to keep the narrative in his head the way he wanted it to be. He patted the upturned rump once – and then smacked it hard.

He had to guess at what Ryan would like: they had discussed generalities but not anything specific, so he experimented. He had always found it easy to read his partner’s reactions from the set of neck and spine, and Ryan relaxed into the blows almost immediately, shoulders easy and body unstressed. When Giles spoke, Ryan squirmed happily, so it was simple to run a steady monologue, scolding his ‘secretary’ for presumed inattention to his work. If Ryan found an English accent a turn-on, who was Giles to complain?

He fumbled, eventually, at his waist, and freed the short strap that had hung all evening from his belt loop. He had intended it mostly as a symbol, an indication to others of what Giles did and liked, rather than something that he intended to use, but he _could_ use it, and Ryan had hinted that he would like it. “Keep still. I’m going to drive this lesson home, my boy, and you are going to count off the strokes, and thank me each time.” He leaned back a little. A strap, even a short one, was easier to use standing than on a body extended across his lap, but again, this was what Ryan said he liked, and Giles felt inclined to oblige him. “Ready?”

“Yes, sir – ow! One, sir. Thank you.”

He made them brisk, hard enough to smart and be memorable, and when Ryan had yelped his way to a dozen, Giles allowed him to slip to the floor, and took, in payment, a single – if heated – kiss. There was a murmur of approval from the watchers, and Giles, allowing himself for the first time to let his attention slip away from Ryan, looked up...

And into Xander's shocked face.

Later, he thought that it was surprising that he had been surprised. He had very deliberately left Xander out of his calculations; he had made no attempt to discover if Xander had in fact, gone to Serpentine with Chad, or had plans for the evening. He had, without avoiding Xander, been avoiding even the suggestion of excessive interest in his personal life. He had been Minding His Own Business to a very marked degree, and yet, here was Xander, with an expression of... he wasn’t sure what. Horror at seeing Giles at all? Shock at seeing Giles engaged with another man? Giles had no illusions about how all three of Buffy, Xander and Willow felt regarding his sexuality: he had no business having one. Theoretically, they might accept him as a sexual being, but any suggestion that he acted upon it, that it was other than theoretical, never failed to embarrass them. Dismay at seeing Giles _there_ , in Serpentine? That seemed likely. If Giles’ sexual history should be _history_ , then Giles’ interest in kink should be _ancient_ history, and certainly no more recent than his demon-raising days.

And oh God, it _could_ get worse. Chad was standing beside Xander, an arm hooked possessively over his shoulder, an expression Giles couldn’t read on his face. He saw Giles recognise him, and gave a mocking nod.

“Didn’t realise you were a player, Giles. If I’d known you would be here tonight I would have suggested we all hook up together. You could have shown us how they do things in England. Wanna do that? It’s early still.”

He saw the wash of colour rise in Xander's face and suspected it to be mortification, not arousal; Chad presumably read it too.

“You belong to me, though, don’t you, babe?”

Xander half turned his head away; Chad tapped his cheek, smiling.“Don’t you?”

Xander lifted his chin, and glared at Giles, as if countering some argument Giles hadn't made.

“Yes, Chad.”

“Xander's coming along very nicely,” Chad explained condescendingly, “but I don’t mind sharing if you want to take a turn.”

Giles was aware of Ryan’s sudden shift against his knee and found himself coldly furious.

“As you can see,” he said crisply, never a hint of a stammer, “I am perfectly satisfied with my own companion.” He knew it was a mistake, but he couldn’t resist: he added icily, “In England, it would be viewed as extraordinarily rude to approach a couple engaged in play, and proposition only one of them. Ryan, I’m sorry that you should have been subjected to such disrespect on my account.” He was sorry for Xander, too – but Xander had made it plain that his private life was not Giles’ concern. If he didn’t like Chad claiming him like a lost puppy and offering him to other people, he would have to sort it out with Chad himself.

There was a murmur from one or two of the onlookers, possibly of approval – Giles suddenly realised that he _didn’t_ know what current feeling was on the subject of propositioning other players, or if it had changed in twenty years, or between England and America – and Chad’s face darkened as he pulled at Xander's shoulder and drew him away. For a second, Giles thought of following, but better sense prevailed; Chad wouldn’t speak to him, Xander wouldn’t speak to him, he had nothing useful to say to either of them, and Ryan deserved better than even a suggestion that Giles wanted to be other than with him. He smiled, a little stiffly, at the upturned face at his knee. “Another drink, Ryan?”

The rest of the evening was not, from Giles’ point of view, a success. He hoped that he had concealed it from Ryan – he thought he had – but he found himself looking for Xander and disturbed at not finding him. He said goodnight to Ryan – taking another kiss – earlier than he had quite intended, and went home to consider his bewilderment.

Honesty was, he thought unhappily, over-rated. It was mortifying to admit, even if only to himself, that if Ryan had been a physically different type – less like Ethan (he might as well face that) – Giles would probably have brushed aside his hints and been less inclined to accommodate him.

It was equally mortifying to admit that his objection to Chad’s suggestion that they should share Xander was not moral, or even a personal belief that Xander was too young, or not Giles’ type, or that their longstanding relationship would be damaged by such a thing. No, it was simply that Giles had no urge to be involved in any way with Chad. Xander, he would cheerfully have bounced into bed, with or without a little pain or power play ahead of time, had Xander ever shown the least interest in Giles himself. He had taken great care for several years _not_ to think of Xander that way, and he found himself enraged and resentful that one snide comment from a man he disliked could have made it impossible for him to deny any longer the attraction he felt for Xander.

He was angry, confused, and humiliated, and he went home and gave way to what he had to acknowledge, even if only to himself, was a sulk.


	3. Giles 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: mild BDSM, not wholly consensual, but not the way you think.

It was largely because he could think of absolutely _nothing_ to say to Xander that he made no attempt to speak to him over the next three days; indeed, he didn’t even see Xander, and Giles was quite happy with that. He was mortified at having been seen by Xander engaged with Ryan, although intellectually he wasn’t sure why: after all, he had made it clear to Xander that he too knew about places like Serpentine, and that his knowledge was other than theoretical. He was mortified, on his own account, at the discovery that he was attracted to Xander. He was still uneasy about Serpentine, and about Chad, with no evidence worth the name about either.

He didn’t know what to do.

He was completely taken aback when Willow called him.

“Giles? Are you... Do you know where Xander is?”

It annoyed him so much when they rolled their eyes at him – he thought it unbelievably rude – but even he could see that sometimes it was the only possible response. Willow and Buffy _knew_ that Giles and Xander were at odds; why on earth would she expect him to know where Xander was if she did not?

“I haven’t seen him since Friday evening, Willow.”

“I – oh. But... Giles, wasn’t he going clubbing on Friday?”

“I believe so,” he said carefully. There was no reason to tell Willow that Xander _had_ gone clubbing and that Giles had seen him there.

“But... wasn’t he supposed to check in with you afterwards?”

“With _me_? No... I thought he was checking in with you.”

There was a long silence. “Giles, he told me that you were,” and he heard her pick a word carefully, “anxious about his safety, and that you wanted him to have a check in buddy. He used to...”

He felt panic rise in him. “He used to check in with you when he was dating first; he told me so. He, he did offer to check in with me, but you heard how he was with me, Willow, and I, I didn’t like to make an issue of it. I asked him to, to go back to checking in and said that if he wasn’t comfortable checking with me, he should call you. Are you telling me he didn’t?”

Her voice was a little higher than usual. “He told me it was you.” She was silent for a moment, and then he heard her discover it. “No, Giles, he didn’t. He never actually said. He implied... I thought he was calling you. And you...”

“I thought he was calling you.” He was reaching for his jacket as he spoke. “And I saw him last on Friday evening, and you...?”

“Friday lunchtime.”

“Call Buffy. I’ll be with you in a quarter of an hour.”

It was a little longer than that, but not much. Buffy, it seemed, knew no more than Willow where Xander had gone. He wasn’t at home, and wasn’t answering his phone. Giles asked the question which made him most uneasy.

“Has either of you got a number for Chad?”

Willow did – but there was no answer on it. In fact, there was no sound at all – no ‘I’m sorry I’m not available’ message, no ‘the service is suspended’ message. Nothing. It was as if the number simply didn’t exist.

“Do you know where he lives? Or where he works?”

They both shook their heads. They had only ever met him with Xander, and on their own turf. Giles swore, silently; the girls looked worried.

“Who, who else does he spend time with?” And he ought to _know_ this, he ought to _know_ about Xander's friends.

The girls exchanged glances. “Us,” said Buffy flatly. “And Chad, and... Giles, when, it’s like, with a new boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever...”

“He’s dropped everybody else to spend time with Chad.”

“Maybe they just went away for the weekend?” suggested Willow hopefully. “I mean, people do.”

“Without telling...” _us_ , he wanted to say, but Xander wouldn’t have told him. Particularly not after Friday night. He wouldn’t have told Giles the _time_ , not willingly. “Without telling you, Willow?” Buffy was nodding; her thoughts were presumably running along the same lines as Giles’ own. Xander simply would not have done that, but Willow’s expression of panic was more than he could bear.

“Well, I suppose he might. He might. We should, we should...” but he could think of very little that they could do.

“Giles... I know you like to keep us under the radar, but... should we go to the police?”

And he didn’t like that either. He didn’t like that Buffy was suggesting it. If Buffy was suggesting it, her Slayer senses were presumably pinging too. He turned to look at her and her face was creased with concern. Yes, she was beginning to feel what he was feeling. He tamped down ‘feelings’ and applied his intellect.

“I – don’t think it would help, Buffy. I’m not against it, but, but I think the reaction we’re likely to get would be ‘he’s an adult, he can go off if he wants.’” He hesitated. “What really concerns me... I’ve been, I’ve been looking at the club he wanted to go to.”

“Serpentine?”

He wondered if they knew what it was, and decided not to ask. “I’m concerned that, that there have been people, members, going missing and, and the police haven’t, haven’t, well, I don’t know if they are aware of it, but... It was one of the reasons I wasn’t happy about Xander going there.”

“You think it’s hinky,” said Buffy flatly.

“I, I, yes.”

“What are we going to do?”

He forced himself to think. “I don’t think I can... I can investigate it, but not before Friday. It isn’t open during the week. I’ll, I’ll go on chasing up whatever I can find out, but I can’t go there until Friday.”

“ _Go_ there?” asked Buffy, sharply. “Giles...” She stopped abruptly, and then went on. “Xander told us what it was. Do you...” She stopped again.

He had to tell them. “I, I have a membership. I was very uneasy in my mind about it; I went on Friday to see if I could, if I could put a finger on why it worried me. Xander saw me. Buffy, he may just have gone because... Chad said... Chad made a remark there that offended me, and I think it embarrassed Xander. I was, I was dismissive towards Chad and he and Xander may have, may be, _may_ be punishing me for it.”

He could see them absorb it. “You think he’s gone off on purpose, so that you’ll be worried?” asked Willow in a small voice.

He hesitated too long over his answer and both Willow and Buffy saw it, he could tell. He had to give them the truth. “No. I hope that’s it, but... I wish I did think so. I wish I could think that he was being childish and trying to pay me back, but, but, but I can’t... I can’t see what’s wrong with Serpentine, but _something_ is. I’ll go back on Friday, see what I can find, but, but I think you two must start making a fuss. Be visible. Be audible. You want to know where Xander is. Make it so that, so that if somebody,” and he swallowed hard, “if somebody is keeping him against his will, they decide it’s not worth the risk.”

Willow whimpered quietly; Buffy nodded. He could see their fear.

He could feel his own.

He chased information all week and found nothing to reassure him. Buffy and Willow asked him every time they saw him, until his responses became short enough that even they backed away.

He was at Serpentine almost before the doors opened, scouring the rooms one by one, searching for Xander. Or Chad.

Or Ryan.

It was nearly midnight when he found Ryan, wandering in and looking around him, brightening when he saw Giles, who was on him instantly, leading him into a quiet corner.

“Hey, Rupert – I wasn’t sure you would be back.”

He fought for control. “Ryan, I need, I need to talk to you. The, the couple we saw last week, the man who, who suggested...”

“Chad?”

He stared. “You _know_ him?”

Ryan wrinkled his nose. “I know who he is. He hangs with the guy who owns this place. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to him.”

Giles shut his eyes, and breathed hard. “The, the boy who was with him.” He opened his eyes, and just caught the tail end of Ryan controlling his expression. “Ryan, I know him. I’ve known him since he was at school. He’s, he’s not, I, it’s not, when Chad suggested, he, he was just trying to score points off me. Xander wouldn’t think of, of, and neither would I. But Xander hasn’t been seen since he was here last week and his friends are worried.” Ryan was still blank-faced; Giles went on desperately. “He didn’t call his phone buddy; he didn’t say he was going away.”

Ryan shrugged. “Chad’s known as a fairly intense player. They’ve probably gone to, I dunno, hole up for a week to get over it.”

“Do you know where Chad lives?”

Ryan shook his head.

“Would, would your friends know? Lucy, perhaps? Ryan, I don’t expect you to care for his sake: you don’t know him. But, but if you just vanished off the face of the earth, wouldn’t you want to know that somebody had noticed, that somebody was looking for you?” He held his breath; that was purest emotional blackmail, and he didn’t know Ryan well enough to be able to guess if it would answer, but he could think of nowhere else to go with it.

Ryan glanced away. “People drop out, Rupert. Can’t make me believe that it’s so different in England.”

He shook his head. “It’s not, of course. But... Ryan, you told me you wouldn’t go home with a stranger, you wouldn’t be persuaded outside with somebody you didn’t know. You know the risks and you’re not a novice. Xander _is_. He knows, theoretically, about safety, but I’m not sure that he, that he really believes in the dangers. And the dangers are _real._ I’d love to think that I’m overreacting, but I know him well enough to say that just going off on his own isn’t something he would do. If he’s holed up with Chad, as you say, well, good for him. But, but what if he isn’t?”

“People do just go, Rupert.” But there was something in his tone that made Giles stop and take notice; he cast his mind hastily over the names he had investigated. Ryan wasn’t interested in women, so not Rachel, Angelina or Laura. David and Stefan were straight so not them.

“Did Casey just go? And Jack?”

There was a long silence.

“You some sort of cop, Rupert?” Ryan’s tone was bitter, and his expression was deeply hurt. Giles shook his head.

“No. I have no official standing at all. I’m a researcher, Ryan. I honestly am what I told you I was.” He let the silence hang for a moment and then asked gently, “Which of them was it?”

Ryan looked away. “Jack and I had a thing... not serious, just... if neither of us hooked up with anybody, we’d work a scene together.”

Fuck-buddies, despite what Ryan had said about not getting picked up just for the sake of it.

“Where’s Jack now?”

Ryan shrugged.

“But you want to know?”

The expression Ryan turned on him was piteous. “I just... I just don’t think he would have gone without saying goodbye. We weren’t together but... Look, we had a try together but outside the club it didn’t work. But... Rupert, do you know where he went? I asked around some, never got an answer.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But... Ryan, there are seven people missing. Eight, with Xander. And _somebody_ knows.”

It was difficult not to go on, not to push further, but something told him that he could push Ryan _past_ the point at which he might help, and he held his tongue, while the silence extended.

“I’ll ask around,” said Ryan abruptly. “You hanging about here? Might take me some time. I don’t know who’s in, tonight.”

Giles nodded, feeling the relief pour down his back in a cold trickle of sweat. “Thank you.” 

It took two hours, and Giles desperately wanted to go home to bed, but he sat at the bar, pretending to be interested in the action happening around him, nursing a glass of he no longer remembered what, that he no longer wanted anyway.

“Rupert?”

He jumped when Ryan spoke.

“This is Karl. I think he might... you might like him.”

He rather thought not. Karl was not _at all_ his type: he had never been into the small, frail-looking delicate types. He didn’t care for the way Karl eyed him either: the flouncy pout as he settled on a bar stool set his teeth on edge, but Ryan had brought him for a reason, so he smiled as encouragingly as he could, and caught the barman’s eye.

“A drink, Karl? Ryan?”

Ryan shook his head. “I’m not stopping; things to see, people to do, ya know... I’ll see you around, Rupert.”

Karl smirked. “I’ll have a Special, thanks.”

Giles watched in concealed horror as the Special was constructed in front of him: it was only alcoholic in a minor way, but even without tasting it he could tell that it would be tooth-achingly sweet, and it was a deep violet and decorated with more by way of umbrellas and chopped fruit than he cared to see. He disguised his shudder, and ordered another tonic water.

“Ryan says you’re... interested in what goes on here.”

“I’m looking for a friend who’s been seen here.” There, that was bland enough.

“Dark guy, young? Hanging with Chad?”

“That’s him.”

“He and Chad have split. I think they were going to Florida.”

Giles smiled tightly. “I don’t think so.”

Karl eyed him over the top of his Special; Giles looked back, and hid another shudder at the glittery eyeliner.

“How bad do you want to know?”

“Badly,” said Giles, automatically correcting the grammar, but Karl heard it as an answer, and smiled slowly.

“And what are you prepared to do to find out?”

 _Anything_ , he thought, but he had more sense than to say so. “Are we negotiating? You, you start.”

Karl sipped his Special. “Ryan says you’re a Dom. That’s not what he wants, he isn’t into heavy play: he likes lighter stuff, rôle play, that sort of shit. But he’s been around a long time, he knows what’s what. He says you’re the real thing.”

“I have been,” said Giles, cautiously. “Not in this country. And not for a long time.”  

“Do you forget how?”

No. He was sure of that. Two evenings in the club and he knew that he could have made a place for himself there. Could have been significant. A known quantity. In demand. “I can still do it.”

“How far will you go?”

“How far do you want?”

Karl nodded at the far wall, on which there was a St Andrew’s Cross. “Can you use a single-tail?”

“I – could. Once. I haven’t done in a long time. I was younger then, my eye will have been better. I, I don’t know how accurate I would be now.” He bit back any of the other things he wanted to say: that he wouldn’t do that, it was dangerous, he would need to practise ahead of time; that he _would_ do it, that he would do _anything_ to find out where Xander was, no matter the risk to himself or anyone else. He needed to offer something else. “I’m stronger than I look; I work out a lot.” _With a Slayer, and she could tear any of the big men here into pieces without breaking a sweat._ “If you want to be hurt, give me an ordinary nylon riding crop, and believe me, I’ll hurt you.”

Karl smiled slowly. “Can you break me? Get what you want to know out of me?”

Fuck. Could he? Could he beat the information he wanted out of another man? “Limits?” He felt sick.

“No safe-word. No limits.”

He stared, and Karl’s expression shifted to malicious amusement.

“Do they let you play with no safe-word here? A reputable club in, in England won’t, and when I was watching earlier, there was a house rep keeping an eye on things and asking tops for the subs’ safe-words before he would let them use the equipment.”

Karl shrugged one narrow shoulder. “Can get round it. He’ll ask you, not me – he wants to know if you know my word. So you tell him something – doesn’t matter what, you tell him it’s ‘England’ or ‘cat food’ or something – out of my hearing. And then I won’t use it because I don’t know what it is.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. “As simple as that? They’re honestly missing a trick as simple as _that_?”

Karl didn’t answer him, and his expression was shifty; Giles applied his intellect. “Which of them is it?”

Karl looked away. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“The house minders. Which of them is in on this? There’s always somebody who wants to play without a safe-word; that’s, that’s why they have the checks in the first place. What you’re suggesting is the way to make sure that if I do you harm, the minder doesn’t get into trouble for it.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or, or are you just trying to set me up? I tell the minder your safe-word is ‘England’, you go screaming to the management and you and he together say that it was ‘Florida’ and I get kicked out? Or blackmailed?”

Karl tipped his glass. “You won’t know until you try. And if you don’t try, you don’t find out what I know.”

“I don’t _know_ that you know anything at all,” pointed out Giles evenly. Karl smiled maliciously again.

“No. You don’t. But I do. You won’t believe it when I tell you anyway.”

That – somehow – sounded like a little more than the usual hints and attempts to turn away complaints of failure to deliver. Giles sat back and looked assessingly at the man opposite.  

“I can believe six impossible things before breakfast. Give me something.”

Karl snorted into the debris in his glass. “A freebie? I _don’t_ think so.”

“An expression of good faith,” said Giles, steadily.

“You start,” mocked Karl.

It would need to be something suggesting more than play. He had met Karl’s type before: violence junkies. He set his own glass down carefully on the bar, and unclipped the strap, rising from the bar stool. No words: Karl wouldn’t answer to being _told_ to take up any given position.

It seemed likely that Karl had believed what he had said about being strong; he hadn't mentioned that he was fast. He thought, with some satisfaction, that Karl didn’t even see the strike that put Giles’ hand in his hair. When he pulled, he didn’t do anything to alleviate the tug, to transfer the force of it away from Karl’s head, nor, when he let go, did he do anything to ease the thump with which the other man hit the bar stool. It took him just under the ribs, knocking the breath out of him, and the strap sang through the air and landed across Karl’s arse with every ounce of Giles’ weight and skill behind it.

There was an instant’s silence all around them, as people turned to look, before the normal ambient buzz returned; Karl pushed himself off the stool, crowing for breath. Giles fought down the adrenaline high, turned contemptuously away, and sat. It was maybe half a minute before Karl took his own place.

“Good faith,” said Giles coldly. “Mine. Pick up that glass, and all the garbage you’ve spilled. You don’t make extra work for the bar staff while you’re with me.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the barman grin and turn away; if he thought that Giles was merely a strict top imposing his will on a misbehaving sub, so much the better. “Now you. Never mind what you think I will or won’t believe.”

Karl, who appeared a little shaken, set the glass and the mangled pineapple pieces carefully on the bar, before turning to Giles. “Have it your own way.”

“I intend to. Good faith, Karl. Now. Tell me something to suggest that you aren’t just a cheap little pain slut trying to con me into a scene.”

The glare he got was half way between hatred and uncontrollable lust.

“Chad. Chad is not _entirely_ human.”

He let out his breath slowly.

“Very well. _Now_ , I’m interested.”


	4. Xander 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: none.

He was confused. It was hot, it was darker than he thought it ought to be, and he didn’t feel good. He wondered vaguely if he’d had too much to drink; generally he was careful about that sort of thing, because he totally wasn’t going to turn into his dad, but occasionally it happened. Shouldn’t have, because they had been at the club, and it was something he remembered thinking ahead of time: don’t drink when you’re going somewhere new or doing something new, it’s not real smart. So the club wasn’t somewhere new, they’d been three or four times, but what they were doing was still new enough that he’d wanted to have his wits about him.

His head hurt. Maybe he was catching something? Everything ached a bit, the way it did when he was getting the flu. His legs were cramping, and his stomach just didn’t feel quite right.

He wasn’t, when he thought about it, absolutely certain where he was. Chad... Chad had said something about... taking him somewhere?

They must be at Chad’s, but this didn’t look like Chad’s apartment. He knew Chad’s apartment. No, this wasn’t it. What had Chad said?

He’d said something about needing to see a friend. That was right; Chad wanted to see a friend, had said that he wanted the friend to see Xander. For some reason he’d thought that was funny, but he wouldn’t share the joke with Xander. He’d said Xander would find out soon enough. They had left the club... yes, now he remembered. Chad had been pissed at Giles, and hadn't that been a surprise? Not that Chad was pissed, but that Giles was... was doing _that_ with another man. Giles had said that he had done _that_ , back in the day, but Xander hadn't exactly believed him, he’d thought it was just Giles trying to stop them arguing by pretending to understand. Only it hadn't been that, had it? It had been obvious from what Giles had been doing, and the way he had been doing it, and the way he had _talked_ while he had been doing it, and the way the other guy had quite obviously been _liking_ what Giles was doing, that not only had Giles done it before, but that he was real good at it still. _That_ was the surprise.

Xander hadn't told Chad about the conversation he’d had with Giles. Why hadn't he? He didn’t – quite – remember, except that he’d thought Chad wouldn’t like knowing that Xander had talked to Giles about Serpentine and about what – about what Chad wanted Xander to do.

Not that Xander had been unwilling, not at all. Xander hadn’t been exactly honest with Giles when he’d said that it was Chad’s thing rather than his. Well, he’d been telling the truth when he’d said that he’d not done it before, but... but he’d thought about it. He’d thought about it a _lot_. He’d always had a thing for... about people who knew what they were doing. He’d always thought that was _hot_. To begin with it had been girls, and then it had been boys as well, and there had been a short and really, _really_ embarrassing period when he’d had a totally uncontrolled crush on Giles himself, after he’d seen Ripper. He’d managed to hide that, not just from Giles, who would have hated it, but from the girls who wouldn’t have understood it, particularly because that was way before he came out. Hell, to a large extent he’d hidden it from himself: he’d pretended that he thought Ripper was funny and he’d absolutely not admitted, even inside his own head, that Giles in denim and leather was...

Who precisely was he trying to kid? He _still_ thought that Giles in leather was totally hot. Giles being bossy was totally hot. Giles being sarcastic was _volcanically_ hot. Giles trying to coax him into giving up Chad... was not hot but there was a small disloyal part of his mind hinting that if Giles had just _ordered_ him to give up Chad, if Giles had threatened to punish him for _not_ giving up Chad, Xander would have ditched Chad without a second thought.

And that was not something he was thinking about now. At all. Ever. Because no, he didn’t really want Giles. Giles was old, and he was, he was Giles and Giles wouldn’t and Xander wouldn’t and it wasn’t and they didn’t and...

Xander was with Chad. He was with Chad and they were visiting with Chad’s friend, and Xander didn’t feel well. He wasn’t sure why he was lying on this... whatever this was. Some sort of couch.

“This is it?”

He jumped; he hadn't heard anybody come in. Maybe he had been asleep? He opened his eyes, and the room swam. Oh, he was so getting sick with something. He didn’t want to have the flu.

“I think it should meet the criteria.” That was Chad’s voice; he wondered vaguely what Chad was talking about, and who to. He closed his eyes again.

“Show me?”

The cushion shifted, and he whined a little with discomfort.

“Xander?” It was Chad, whispering. “Xan, sweetheart?” There was a hand moving slowly over his hair and he made another faint noise, this time of pleasure.

“Xan, let me show you off.” Oh, no, no, nonono, not here for Chad’s friend? Chad had done that in Serpentine and he had been... he had been _so_ embarrassed, more embarrassed than he had ever been in his _life_ , and his life was simply _filled_ with embarrassments. The room had been half full of people and Chad had done that in front of _everybody_ and Xander hadn't liked it, he hadn't liked it at all, except that every time Chad had touched him, he’d got harder and harder, knowing that everybody was watching. But he hadn't known any of those people and that was one thing, and of course he didn’t know Chad’s friend, but that wasn’t the same thing at all, but Chad was touching his face, setting a finger on his lip and he couldn’t help it, he opened his mouth and sucked the finger inside, licked around the tip of it, tried to stop Chad taking it away again until he felt Chad’s fingers on his chest and when had he lost his shirt? Chad’s fingers were wet and that was Xander's doing, and they were playing on his chest, tweaking his nipples and flicking at them until they were hard and tight and until his head rocked back with what Chad was doing, and with the knowledge that Chad’s friend was watching. When Chad’s hand slid down to the front of his jeans, Xander heard himself make an odd wailing noise half way between ‘please don’t do that because it’s way embarrassing specially with somebody watching’ and ‘please don’t stop doing that because it’s way hot specially with somebody watching’.

“How much has it had?”

“Enough to make the spell take. Humans are easy enough that way; they know about the drug themselves, they use it to control fits, and there’s a street version that makes them submissive enough to have sex with strangers. It doesn’t need much; I gave it enough to keep it quiet until you can do the spell.”

“And the law?”

“It’s subject to the law. More or less.”

“Which? More? Or less?”

He could hear Chad’s amusement, and he wondered stupidly what they were talking about. What was ‘it’? His hips were still lifting into the pressure of Chad’s hand.

“It has made the avowal, in front of a witness.” Chad laughed aloud. “And what a witness! It’s almost a shame that you won’t need to prove it, but I put the hex in. The avowal can be seen by anyone who knows how to look for it, and it will last until – unless – somebody puts in a permanent claim. It’s sound. Sound in wind and limb, clear title, provenance back to me. It’s exactly what you ordered.”

The other person laughed. “Packed up and ready to go then?”

“Ready to go. All that’s left is my fee.” Chad sounded suddenly serious.

“We have no quibble with that. It looks precisely what we wanted... of course the normal conditions apply? If it isn’t suitable?”

“It is suitable, but yes, the usual contract conditions apply. Anything within a month – that’s a month at your end, not a month at mine – and I’ll take it back and give you a refund.”

There was a grunt, which he thought sounded like approval, and he half opened his eyes again. The hand went away and he whined; Chad was standing over him, with somebody beside him, somebody very tall. He struggled to wake up, to sit up, and Chad smiled affectionately at him, leaning over to tap him on the cheek.

“Bye, sweetie.”

Was Chad leaving? Why was Chad leaving? Why was Chad leaving him? Why was Chad leaving him here?

Where the hell _was_ here?

And why did he suddenly think that he desperately wanted Giles?


	5. Giles 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: corporate finance.

“Did you get what you wanted?”

Ryan was leaning against the wall by the cloakroom when he came out.

“I did, I think. Well, not what I wanted, but what I needed to know.”

“Do you know what’s happened to them? Jack, and... and your friend?”

He swallowed hard. “Yes, I think so.”

Ryan shot him a shrewd glance. “From your face, it’s nothing good. Do I want to know?”

Giles looked away, wondering what would be best to tell him. Ryan laughed, a short bark.

“I don’t, do I?”

“I think not,” Giles agreed, gently. “I, I think you won’t see your friend again, Ryan. I think – I think it’s likely that he’s dead.” If he were lucky.

Ryan looked down, and Giles came to lean on the wall beside him, not looking in his face. That much, he could give him.

“Was it – something to do with here? With the club?”

Giles shut his eyes. “I think so. And Ryan, it’s not anything I can report to, to the police. They wouldn’t believe it, and, and I can’t prove anything.”

“Something political? I mean, not government, but, but power?”

That was close enough. He nodded. There was a silence.

“Was that why you came? To find out?”

He nodded again.

“And... I saw you, you took Karl off to one of the private rooms. And I saw him when he came out.”

Karl had enjoyed that much more than Giles had done.

“Was that... the other night...”

He understood the question that wasn’t precisely being asked.

“What I did to Karl,” and it was ‘to’ Karl, not ‘with’ Karl, not willingly, “I did because I had to. To find out. He wasn’t going to tell me anything otherwise. The other night, I admit, I came here for information, and I used you to get it. But what we did together, I did because we both wanted it. Not because I thought you... it wasn’t a payment, or, or a duty.” It was suddenly important that Ryan should understand this. “It was purest pleasure, to me at least, and I wish, I wish I could say that... If I thought I would be coming back, I would... Lucy said she thought you would like me; I didn’t expect to like you, but I do.”

“You’re not coming back.”

He examined the back of his hand; he could see the bruise forming, from when he had struck Karl across the jaw. “No. I, I don’t think it would be safe. I know too much now, and I can’t imagine that Karl will hold his tongue. I, I, Ryan... I don’t think this would be a safe place for you any more, either. Actually, I don’t think it ever was. Safe for anybody, I mean. I think that somebody is, is picking off members, to some sort of schedule or, or description, and we don’t know what that is. The people who have vanished have all been different.”

“Sounds like an auto-theft ring. You know, where you put in an order for a make and model and it gets taken from an airport lot for you.”

Giles shuddered. “I think it might be exactly that.”

“God.”

 “So please... Ryan, there are other clubs, even somewhere like this. Karl said you knew your way around; you’ll know where they are, won’t you? Would, would you, I have no right to ask, but please would you at least _think_ of going somewhere else?”

“You actually think... you think it’s that serious?”

He shut his eyes and nodded. “And people have seen you with me, and I’ve been asking questions.”

Ryan pushed off the wall. “You going looking for your friend now?”

He nodded.

“Hope you find him. If... not sure if what, but I won’t be here again. You want to play another time, Rupert, there’s a club called Cascade and another one called Viral; I’ll be in one of those.”

He straightened, starting for the door with Ryan beside him. “Be, be careful, won’t you? I’d hate to think of you getting hurt.” He smiled rather twistedly. “Except the way you wanted.”

* * * * *

He made coffee as soon as he got home; he needed to speak to Buffy and Willow absolutely as early as he could, which meant that he wouldn’t have time to sleep. Well, that was nothing new; all through his Watching life, he had gone short of sleep half the time and made it up when he could. Now, his body was telling him that he needed to rest, but his mind insisted that before that, he had to wash the pollution of Karl and what he had _done_ to Karl from his skin. There was no way to wash it from his mind.

He didn’t care to think about that; he felt tainted in a way that he hadn't done in years, and he hoped that it would be possible to tell Buffy and Willow what he had discovered, without having to tell them _how_ he had discovered it. He poured a second cup of coffee, and retreated to the bathroom, turning the shower on, and cranking up the thermostat. Every touch of Karl had to be off him at the earliest opportunity, although he had no particular hope that soap and water would remove the feeling of contamination.

It took a real effort to hold off on calling Buffy until what he knew she would think of merely as early, rather than as Obscene O’Clock, but he forced himself to eat, and to sort out in his head what he wanted to say. He refused to tell her much on the phone, other than that he had discovered some clues; he wanted to do this face to face.

He didn’t _want_ to do it at all.

They came in, Buffy and Willow together, both of them talking, Willow’s hands moving.

His head hurt.

He had learned that there was no point in interrupting; they would talk until they had finished talking and nothing he could do or say would make them stop before that. He waited, more or less patiently, until they drew breath, and then raised an eyebrow and gave them the librarian look. Willow noticed first, digging Buffy in the ribs with her elbow, and settling down at the table.

Buffy grinned at him. “Giles, you look like hell.”

He glared at her, letting it break into a smile. She was his Slayer and he loved her. “As good as that? Yes, I feel like hell. I’m too old to stay up all night. Next time, you can do it.”

“What have you got for us, Giles?” That was Willow, and it knocked the smile off his face instantly; they both saw that and turned grave at once.

“Nothing good,” he admitted sombrely. “I, I, the first point we should have worked out for ourselves two months ago, given what we know about Xander and his personal relationships. Chad. Chad is a demon.”

Willow made a sound of dismay. “Oh Giles... How could we have missed that?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Willow. I at least was so tied up in the fact that I didn’t like Chad, that I was looking at why _I_ didn’t like _him_ , rather than at Chad himself.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “O.K., I get that it’s not turned out well for Xander before, the dating demons gig, but... Well, it doesn’t _necessarily_ mean that it’s a, a... I mean, there are demons who aren’t _necessarily_ evil, yeah?”

“Yeah, but we wouldn’t be here at Giles’ place before breakfast without Xander if he’d been hanging with one of the white hats, would we?” observed Willow, shrewdly. 

Buffy turned hopefully to Giles; he shook his head. “Willow’s right,” he said simply.

Buffy regrouped. “So Chad’s a demon. We liked him – O.K., Giles, I know you didn’t but you don’t like _anybody_ we date – but he’s a demon. Point for you, Giles. Now what?”

He refused to be sidetracked by her accusation; it simply wasn’t relevant to the argument, and anyway, his objection was generally based on their group tendency to date demons. It never ended well. He kept to the point.

“Xander has disappeared. Chad has disappeared. The last time either of them was seen was at the Serpentine Club, from which other people have also disappeared in the last few years. That may or may not be significant. What, what I think _is_ significant is that the Serpentine Club has been losing money.” He glanced at Willow. “I dare say you could have found that out faster than I did, and more cheaply, but it’s a, it’s a... I don’t remember what the technical terms are here. I would call it a private limited company. Is that a close corporation? Or a limited liability company?”

They looked blankly at him; he rubbed his face wearily. “Your corporate structures here aren’t the same as the ones in the UK. It took me half a day to work out what sort of business it was, and as long again to discover that there didn’t seem to be any means for me to look at the company accounts.” He frowned disapprovingly. “You can do that in England, you know, even for private limited companies. They have to lodge annual accounts with the Registrar at Companies House, and anybody can apply to see them without giving a reason. It isn’t even expensive.”

“Um, Giles?” prompted Willow. “I’m sure British corporate practices are way better than ours, but this is going where?”

“This is going,” he said grimly, “towards me tracking down the company accountant and bribing him into letting me see the last six years’ worth of accounts. I threw money at him until I got copies. The company has been losing money, and six years ago it took out a big loan. Then _four_ years ago, the, the officers, shareholders, members, whatever they’re called here, of the company did something I didn’t understand with the capital.”

Buffy’s eyes were glazing over the way they did when he read extracts from demonologies; for once he sympathised. He didn’t understand the _British_ end of what he was saying; he certainly didn’t understand the American end.

“It meant that they put in a lot more money, which went to pay the loan down. I don’t know where the money came from, other than from the owners. Two years ago, they did it again. The club itself, if you, if you ignore what they’re doing with the share capital, or, or whatever the ownership funds are – and I admit that I _don’t_ understand that, it might, it might be completely above board – the club is losing money every year. Every time you think it might go under, there’s an injection of capital from the owners and it manages to pay off the loan or the mortgage or whatever the impending disaster is.” He looked at his hands and then up at Willow. “There’s another impending disaster. I can’t read the accounts easily but even I could see that. They haven’t been making the interest payments, they’ve rolled the interest into the loan, and they can’t repay it. The company needs money and it needs it fast.”

Willow looked blank. Buffy looked blanker than blank.

“Every time I saw the capital injection, it was, it was within a few months of one of the disappearances. And now they need money and Xander's gone.” He swallowed hard. This was the bit that was frightening him as much as he had ever been frightened before. “Xander's gone. Xander's boyfriend is a demon, or half-demon. I think he’s a Gorch, and the Gorch can walk from one dimension to another.” He was putting it off, telling them the detail and not getting to the point, because the point was making him nauseous.

“Xander's missing; Xander's boyfriend is a Gorch, and the Gorch,” he swallowed hard and then simply said it.

“The Gorch are slavers.”


	6. K71B 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: non-consensual flogging.

His head was filled with fluff, or that was what it felt like. Sometimes things came to him – the linkage around his neck, attaching him to the old man in front and the small girl behind, that was called a coffle. The girl behind was struggling; she wasn’t tall enough, and the metal bit at her chin. He learned to hunch a little, to take some of the strain on his own shoulders, to give her perhaps half an inch more of chain. When they stopped, it took them a minute to work out that he had to sit and the other two had to kneel if they weren’t all to be choked by the metal. Coffle. It was an odd word, and he didn’t know where he knew it from.

He thought that he should have known more things. He didn’t know where he had come from or how he had got to where he was. He tried to think about it, but his mind scurried away from the problem, like a gecko he had once seen in... where? He couldn’t remember. There must have been something before the coffle, but... he couldn’t remember that either. The girl was K71C and the old man was K71A, so he must be K71B. It didn’t sound right, not in his head. In his head he thought there should be something else, a two-beat name.

He couldn't remember it. When he tried, his mind did the gecko trick again, running away very fast.

There was a big building, a warehouse, and a lot of people, some of them looking like... like people, and some of them looking like... there was a word for what they were. Gecko time. Some of them looking like not-people, or at least not like people like him. Some of them were odd shapes or odd colours, or maybe he was the one who was an odd colour?

There was a not-people who held keys; he (she? it?) brought another length of chain, and his hands were fastened together, and then the not-people unfastened the coffle, and the old man was taken one way and the little girl another. She was crying; he didn’t like that. He didn’t like her crying. She was small and slight, with smooth soft hair and big eyes, and if he could only get his mind to stop going gecko, he might have been able to think who she reminded him of and why it upset him so much to see her cry.

The not-people was looking at him, and he half remembered seeing it before, in a room with a couch and somebody touching him. Then he heard his name – K71B – and the not-people gave him a shove and he stepped forward into a space with a bright light shining on him. The not-people followed him, and then it caught the chains between his wrists and tugged and made him walk all round in a circle, with people and not-people staring at him and talking.

“Human male, young adult, untrained. Excellent health.”

That... was that him? He wouldn’t say he was in excellent health. He was always being told that he wasn’t fit enough, that he needed to work out more if he was going to gecko gecko gecko. The not-people was saying that he was strong and that wasn’t true because there was... there was... she was blonde and small and stronger than him. That was right and there was a man, a big man, who said that he needed to be fitter. They were gecko gecko and there was another one, another woman and she was why he had been upset about the little girl, about K71C, because K71C looked like gecko gecko gecko.

The not-people was talking again, and some of it was words he thought he ought to know. He heard it say ‘Slayer’ and ‘Watcher’ and he thought that might be important. It sounded as if it ought to be important. His mind went gecko again and he forced it back, forced it to concentrate on ‘Slayer’ and ‘Watcher’ but the words turned into sand under the gecko’s feet and poured away. He knew there was something he was trying to think about but he didn’t know what, and it made him uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in his head. The rest of him was already uncomfortable. He didn’t like the metal hoop around his neck, and he didn’t like the chains between his wrists and he really didn’t like that the not-people was looping the chain over a hook and something was pulling the hook upward so that his hands were pulled above his head until he was almost swinging, until he was standing on tiptoe. That was uncomfortable.

The not-people had something in its hand, something shiny _sharp_ oh God it had a knife and he was helpless, he couldn’t get his balance. It was coming at him, going behind him and he whimpered and swung, trying to keep it in view, and the people and not-people watching laughed.

It wasn’t fair, laughing at him when he was scared and when his mind was going gecko.

He felt the knife: it slid across his back and he felt the fabric of his tee shirt part from sleeve to sleeve, and then a long rip from hem to collar, and his shirt tricked its way down his body and fell on the floor. Somebody in the crowd called out and there was more laughter, and he whimpered again. The not-people answered, something about his body and he felt himself blush hotly all the way from his waistband to his hairline. The not-people was touching him and he didn’t like it; it was stroking his back, and his shoulders, and then it stood behind him, and reached around his chest, tickling him and making him twitch and swing on the chain. It tweaked his nipples hard and he cried out with shock and humiliation and a little pain; the crowd roared again, and the not-people slid the knife into the waistband of his pants.

He kicked, desperately, but the chain was tight and short and he couldn’t get a sound footing to fight, and the crowd laughed again as the fabric parted and the knife burrowed again and he was going to be _naked_ , hanging _naked_ on a chain in front of a large crowd and this was a dream, this was definitely a bad dream, he knew about those. Stress dreams. They left you naked in public with people laughing at you.

This was a bad one because the not-people was talking – he couldn’t concentrate on what it was saying – and its hands were _everywhere_ , on his chest, plucking at his nipples again, wandering _oh_ _nonono_ lower and _bouncing_ his... no, honestly, he knew that showing those bits off was something he was only supposed to do with people he knew well, and he didn’t care to have them _bounced_ like the not-people was selling fruit in a market.

He felt the realisation trickle down his naked back.

Market.

Selling.

And the produce was him.

Oh, as stress dreams went, this was a doozy. Naked and tied and people staring and oh dear merciful whatevers, the not-people was inviting them in, and they were all coming over and there was no doubt about it – he was merchandise. They were asking questions; he could hear the questions and was it possible to die of embarrassment? Because if it was, he was so going to. That would be so completely not a problem. And what was with the woman who wanted to see his teeth? She damn near lost a finger: he wasn’t having somebody stick their fingers in his mouth unless it was a dentist. But he obviously wasn’t supposed to do that because the not-people slapped him. What was that about? Slapped him, hard, on the bare ass, and he yelped in shock and twisted and the people laughed again.

Oh, no, he hated this. This was _way_ humiliating. Somebody said something about the mark on his ass, and the not-person laughed and slapped him again, and again, and it _hurt_ , not much but it did hurt, and he said something, he heard his own voice but it was slow, and he shouldn’t sound like that. The not-person slapped him again, and one of the other people commented on how pink his ass looked, and how much did he colour? He didn’t like the sound of that.

He liked it even less when the not-people showed them. Smack after smack after smack, all on the same side of his ass, so that they could compare – the not-people helpfully explained it – the smacked colour against the untouched place. And now it did hurt; he must have had maybe fifty swats, all on the same place on his ass, and he was struggling, swinging on the damn chain, trying to get away and he couldn’t, his ass burning from the spanking, his wrists hurting from the chain; his shoulders aching from having his arms above his head, and his legs cramping from the effort of keeping his balance.

It wasn’t a dream. He’d had bad dreams before – he couldn’t remember much but he was sure of that – but things in bad dreams didn’t _hurt_. Not with the dull ache of overstressed muscles.

This was real.

He thought it was probably bad, but his mind wasn’t working right: half the time it was doing the gecko trick and the rest of the time it was like thinking through syrup.

The not-people left him alone after a while but he didn’t think that was making anything better. He was still dangling from a hook like an unwanted bathrobe, he was still naked except for his shoes, and he was still conscious that half his ass was radiating heat.

Then the talk started. He thought he ought to be able to recognise it, and he concentrated real hard, although his mind went gecko and syrup several times. The not-people started it, and then the people all round joined in, sometimes two or three of them at a time. Then the not-people would repeat what the last one had said, and there would be a pause and somebody else would join in. It went on for a long time, with fewer and fewer people participating, until there were only three: the original not-people and a real person on one side of the room and a not-person on the other.

Eventually, and very slowly, up through the syrup in his head came the word ‘auction’.

It was the not-person who won. Who won _him._ There was some talk, and then the original not-person came over, took something from his metal collar, and went off with the second not-person, leaving him hanging there. The crowd broke into little knots; most of them wandered away, but some of them were still looking at him, commenting, pointing at him.

The not-people came back and he could see what they had: it was a metal disk – the word ‘dogtag’ came from somewhere. He was going to be tagged. He was going to wear something around his neck with his name and a... a... he had a sudden picture of a list of numbers, that would allow somebody who found him to contact his...

Owner. The word sat in his stomach like a stone. His Owner was the second not-people.

He wondered if he had had other Owners before. No, he couldn’t have had, could he: the first not-people had said he was untrained. 

They were talking; he forced himself to listen, tried to control gecko mind and syrup mind, and listened, hard.

“No training, you said.”

“Literally none. Never even been collared before, so you can decide what you want him for and have him prepared for that.”

“He’s going to be an anniversary gift for my wife, a houseboy. General work, occasional outdoors labour. We have a small farm, and he can provide muscle at harvest but he doesn’t need to be trained for that other than in basic commands. It will be fetch and carry work. Mostly household work, indoors. Kitchen work, service, that sort of thing. We keep a cook, so nothing skilled; preparation, cleaning. A lot of my work involves entertaining customers and suppliers, so actually, he’ll be a status symbol as much as anything. You know how the fashions go: a couple of years ago it was Quingal girls in the house, last year it was Misak. A human male will be a talking point.”

The first not-human nodded. “Bed-slave?”

Oh no. Oh fuck no. Syrup or not, he knew that was nothing good. There had been some books... He remembered... syrup. But there had been books about a planet and warriors and... he’d had friends, he remembered that, and when they were young somebody had a book about a warrior and a bed-slave and they’d all read it and pretended they didn’t. Where was that?

 _When_ was that? 

And somebody, some girl had found out that he had read the book, and she had yelled at him about, about, about...

He didn’t remember, except that being a bed-slave was a Very Bad Thing and nobody would actually want to do it.

“Not for us: the biology is too different. We do have human or half human contacts visiting occasionally, so he’ll have to be taught to please in case any of them want him, but he’s not going to be an hetaeros.”

The first not-human laughed. “Probably just as well; I’ve seen his provenance, and he’s not known for his intellect. I think you would struggle to get much by way of classical conversation or music from him, and I’m reasonably certain that he can’t dance.”

“Not what we do, but we’ll send him to a visitor’s bed if they want him. No, we’re just after obedience, and minor skills.”

“Leave him with us. Two weeks and he’ll be as biddable as you would like.”

“No permanent marks?”

He felt his stomach clench at that too; the not-human laughed. “This is a respectable kennel. He’ll probably arrive with you striped – unless you particularly want not? – but nothing that won’t fade. If you would like to come and sign the contract, and put your own mark on him for the legalities of the transfer, he can go to the kennel-master today.”

Mark? Legalities? He didn’t like that.

“Do you need to do it, or is it only me?”

“Just you. He has no prior owner here; his previous owner was elsewhere, and it was only a nominal ownership anyway.”

They left him hanging – he was so tired of that. He was so tired.

He didn’t like the look of them when they came back. The not-human was smiling, and he didn’t care for that. The Owner was carrying a long black thing, and he felt a whimper of fear bubble in him. He could find words for that. Whip. Crop. Switch. He didn’t know why he had words for that when he didn’t for so many of the other things he could see, but he knew what it was, and he was scared. He wasn’t any less scared when his ankles were chained together, and pinned to a ring in the ground so that he couldn’t twist any more. He was facing away from the Owner and the not-human and his skin itched to know what they were doing behind him with that black switch.

He found out soon enough: it laced his shoulders and he yelled with – not shock exactly, because he’d more than half been expecting it, even if he hadn’t known where it would land. A second blow landed below the first, harder, and he fought the chains on his wrists. Three more, and his shoulders burned; he could feel every individual stripe and his mind screamed at the unfairness of it. He hadn't _done_ anything!

The first one across his ass earned a squeal from him and the four that followed had him howling and begging in his slow, stupid voice, but he had never felt anything to compare with the pain of the first one on the backs of his thighs – unless it was the other four. He hung, helpless, by his wrists, unable to catch his balance with his feet fastened together, and sobbed with pain, and shock, and despair.

He hadn't known that a weal on the backs of his calves would make him scream, and that five would leave him weeping helplessly like a child.

“And hereby I take you within my household.”

“Nicely marked. He’ll remember that.”

Oh, he would, he would.

“And your kennel-master will deal with everything else?” Their voices were retreating.

“You’ll have him back, tamed and obedient, in a fortnight.” 


	7. K71B 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: non-consensual flogging, abuse.

Tamed and obedient. Well, he was that. He didn’t know whether or not to be surprised by it; on the whole, he thought he was. He still didn’t know what had happened before... before the auction time, but he rather thought that once he had been something, or somebody, who wasn’t K71B, and that somebody occasionally sat up in his mind and said ‘Wait, _what?_ ’ about the way things were. He couldn’t keep a grip on that person though, and K71B was tamed. And obedient. And trained.

The first part of his training had been how to keep still under punishment. No, that was wrong. The first part of his training was that he was nothing, he was property. He was nothing, he owned nothing, he had a right to nothing. He had neither clothes nor shoes and any attempt he made to cover himself was swiftly corrected.

The _second_ part of his training had been how to keep still under punishment. He’d learned that in a day and at the end of that day, he had wanted to die from the pain and humiliation and bewilderment. He’d been ordered over and over to keep still; to begin with, it was just a simple order, and when he had failed – and once or twice he had deliberately disobeyed – the kennel-master had used that wicked black switch. He had been set up to fail, he knew that. To begin with, it had been nothing harder than ‘Down! Stay!’ but when he had looked around to see what the kennel-master was doing, the switch had landed on his back or his ass. Then there had been kneeling: kneel and wait, or the switch played on his shoulders. Then kneeling _on_ things: on a pile of hard sticks, or on gravel. As soon as he shifted – because gravel under the knees _hurt_ – the switch fell again.

Later there had been a beating for... there had been a beating. He hadn't been given an order – he had begun to learn to obey, because his desire to fight was slow and weak, another syrup thing. The kennel-master had simply caught him by the collar, told him he was to be beaten, and beaten him. He had struggled, and it had achieved nothing. The man – he was nearly a man, although his knees hinged in a manner unlike K71B’s own – had backed away and then told him again, calmly, that he was to be beaten, and that he was to keep still.

“Ten stripes. Keep still.”

He didn’t, of course, but it didn’t save him. Ten stinging welts were placed across his back, and then he was collared to a post, wrists fastened to metal hooks by his head.

“And ten more for moving.”

Those were laid across his ass and burned savagely. He fought again, to no avail. The hooks and the ring through which his collar ran were lowered somehow; he ended up with his head at what would normally have been chest height, and his back bowed.

“And ten more for moving.”

He kicked and squalled and the switch fell on his thighs; his collar was lowered again, to waist height, but when he bent his legs and tried to kneel, a chain was run around his waist and clipped to the top hook, leaving him doubled and defenceless.

“And ten more for moving.”

Each time they moved him, sometimes down and sometimes up; it was when they turned his damaged back to the post and chained him so that he could see the man and the switch, see where each blow was aimed, that he learned to do as he was told. The switch across the fronts of his thighs made him scream, but he didn’t dare move for fear of putting the man off his stroke and taking the blow higher.

“Better.”

Every couple of hours he was dragged back to the kennel-yard, and thrust into a cage, big enough for him to sit upright in but not tall enough for him to stand. The bottom of it was covered with straw; there was a water bottle hung on one wall, but it couldn’t be removed: he had to drink kneeling and with his face against the bars.

There was no food.

His mind refused, at first, to accept what the gravel tray in the corner was, even when he saw what the inhabitants of the other cages did, but his pleading and explaining was obviously so much noise to the kennel-master, and when he was too importunate, he was briskly dragged out, beaten, and thrust back inside.

Desperation drove him to what pride would have refused.

The next time he was pulled from the cage – he thought he had been left for about half an hour – his knees gave under him.

He was beaten for that. At least, he thought it was for that. It might have been for not keeping still.

The day moved on; the double sun – he thought that wasn’t usual but he wasn’t certain – moved across the violet sky; he was driven back to his cage and locked inside. The kennel-master shouted, and two or three other people, all with the same reversed knees, appeared with bowls, one of which was thrust between the bars.

He didn’t recognise the contents: a smooth greyish green paste with occasional white lumps. Presumably, he thought wearily, it was food but he didn’t know what it was, and he was too sore and exhausted to want it. He slid down into the straw, which prickled on his bare skin; he had no way to lie that didn’t hurt. His skin burned, and every muscle ached; it felt like his _hair_ ached.

The kennel-boy came back, glared at him, and removed the untouched bowl.

The kennel-master came, and he was once again hauled out.

“Eat.”

He wanted to refuse, to fight, to throw the dish, contents and all, at the man, but everything hurt.

“Ach. Here. Sit.” He was pushed to his knees, and he collapsed, head to the ground. A wiry hand twisted in his hair, and pulled him half up. “Eat.”

He looked at the bowl; the kennel-master reached, pointedly, for the switch. “Last time. Eat.”

He dipped his fingers defeatedly in the bowl, and licked them. The paste tasted of... paste. The white lumps tasted faintly of something grassy, like a bitter herb. He gagged. The switch tapped against the kennel-master’s ankle.

He ate.

“Good. Inside.”

He crawled back into the cage, shaking; the kennel-master ran a hand over his back and side. “Warm enough. Sleep.”

His hands were sticky from the green paste; the straw stuck to them. He turned his face into the crook of his elbow, and bit his lip.

He cried anyway. He cried silently for pain and wretchedness and loneliness, and for the fact that he knew there was something he couldn’t remember, and that there had been a life before this, even if he didn’t know what it was. He slept, badly; his dreams were vivid and full of people: a dark man who whispered to him, touched him gently, and then laughed and laughed until he screamed with betrayal. An older man, with a tired, kind, disappointed face. A short woman, blonde, talking animatedly to another darker woman who looked like the little girl in the coffle. They came and went, occasionally interspersed with a very pale blond man and a darker sulky looking one, and a pretty woman who appeared several times with her hair changing colour.

He woke with his eyes scratchy and his face stiff, and the feeling that he had dreamed, but no recollection of what he had dreamed about.

When the kennel-master came with the whip, he ate the paste – grey this time, and the lumps were yellow, but it still tasted of wet nothing – and crawled out when he was called. He stood at the post as the switch fell, flinching, but otherwise unmoving, and the kennel-master made a sound of approval, and attached a leash to his collar.

“Come.”

He spent the day learning to walk to heel, to kneel on command, to obey instantly. The switch still punished every infraction.

On the third day, he rebelled, and even when he was beaten, he snarled and fought. He went unfed that night and the following morning, and when he refused to leave his cage, he was eventually chased out by two kennel-boys with a hose. The water was very cold, and the switch stung on wet skin much worse than before. When he gave way, he was worked hard, made to walk on his leash, and then to follow when the kennel-master rode a large quadruped with a spiked head. When he fell behind, there was a lashed whip to sting his legs and ass until he picked up the pace again. He was shaking with exhaustion when he was returned to his cage – and left unfed.

The next morning, he ate brown paste with pink lumps, and was glad of it. The kennel-master ignored him; he was taken to a stable yard, in which the spiked animals lived, given a shovel and a broom, and made to work. The animals seemed placid, but he was apprehensive about the spike and the clawed feet and it made him slow; he ended up kneeling on the bottom step of a mounting block while the stable-mistress striped him from shoulder to knee for idleness.

He worked a day in a kitchen. That was the day he was given clothes, a short tunic of rough fabric, that pulled at his weals. The cook had no switch, but a wooden spoon that snapped against his thighs when he was less than prompt to obey. The laundry-mistress had a paddle and when in his exhaustion and bewilderment he confused his instructions, she had him pushed into a vat of cold water, and beaten wet.

He was returned to the kennel-master, bruised and confused, and spent a night in the cage and a day cleaning out empty cages, always with an eye for the black switch.

At night, he dreamed of the same people, and woke weeping, although sometimes he remembered his dreams for an hour or so. The tired-looking man and the dark woman were there most often; she spoke, and did odd things with her hands, and her face appeared and disappeared through smoke. The man seemed to speak directly to him, but he could never quite make out the words, and the man’s face creased with worry and more disappointment. Once he thought that the man was shouting, but the words echoed as if they were in a cave. He thought he heard the word ‘Fight!’ but he wasn’t sure.

In the day he learned to obey to avoid the whip, and to be fed, even if on paste and wet lumps. The kennel-master chained him to the post again – he whimpered and begged – and then did _something_ he didn’t understand. He had to look at the man, wasn’t allowed to look away, and another woman in a brown dress stood behind him and whispered, on and on, ending in a word that exploded in his head like a firework. He couldn’t remember the word afterwards, but he knew it when the kennel-master spoke it. Knew it, and found himself totally docile when it was used to him, for an hour or so. It was as if it turned off something in his head, and he simply did as he was told without question.

The next day his tunic was taken away again, and he was taken to a different building and handed over to another woman. He had half an idea that he ought to object to being naked in front of the women more than in front of the men, but he couldn’t remember why. This one had chains which linked his wrists to each other, and to his ankles, and to his collar; she commanded him to kneel and he obeyed her. She didn’t appear to have a switch, but he had discovered that the trainers all had ways of punishing disobedience and he felt no particular desire to discover hers.

“Open your mouth.”

It was so unexpected that he simply gaped at her; she wasn’t even looking at him. She was examining something in her hands; his gaze fell to it.

“Oh no. Please, no.”

His voice was scratchy; he had used very few words in the past week, maybe longer. Had yelled, screamed, howled, whined, but not spoken.

She looked up, as if surprised. “This is a necessary part of your training.” Her voice was reasonable; nobody else had explained anything to him, simply snapped orders and punished him for disobeying them. He gazed at her mutely, his breath coming short, and his mind doing the gecko trick again.

“It’s only a dildo. Open your mouth.”

He looked away, wanting to shake his head, too cowed to fight, too frightened to obey. Her voice hardened.

“It’s going in one end or the other, boy. Open. Your. Mouth.”

His jaw quivered and a single tear slid down his cheek. He opened his mouth.


	8. Giles 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Giles and computers

He knelt inside the circle with Willow; outside it, Buffy prowled around the room anxiously. Willow’s hair hung into her face, her forehead was damp with effort, and her eyes were shut. Power hummed around her, and the drifts of smoke from the piles of herbs seemed to follow her like pets.

He looked down into the scrying bowl. Xander's face wavered under the surface of the liquid; he looked exhausted, his face was dirty and Giles thought his cheekbones were sharper than they had been, and the cords in his neck more pronounced.

“Try again, Giles.” Willow was hoarse with weariness, but she held the link strongly.

He gathered himself: power, long unused, coiled in his stomach, and he felt his body as a weapon.

“Xander? Xander!”

“Again, Giles.”

They tried it as a whisper with every ounce of intent behind it. They tried it as a shout, echoing between dimensions. They changed places, and Giles raised the smoke and controlled the bowl while Willow called for Xander.

When neither of them could still the surface of the liquid in the bowl again, and the herbed smoke took on an acrid tang, Buffy came close and blew out the big white candle between them

“Enough, guys. Not working.”

“Buffy...”

“Not working, Willow, and you’re all grey in the face and Giles isn’t any better.”

He thought he was probably worse. He was so tired that his shoulders hurt, and when he stood up, Buffy caught his weight as he staggered. He reached a hand down to Willow, and steadied her as she stood. Buffy was right: she looked dreadful.

“Willow, I, I think you should eat something. And, and perhaps have some coffee?”

“Already happening,” said Buffy, heading for the kitchen. “At least, it will be if there’s anything to eat in here.”

“There’s...” He had to stop and think about it. “There’s bound to be something in the freezer. Or, or we could toast some cheese. That would be quicker. Willow, sit down.”

“I can grill cheese,” Buffy assured him. “Hey, I can turn burgers, if you have any.” She looked into his freezer. “O.K., it’s cheese. Giles, you sit down too. You want me to make tea?”

Behind her back, he shuddered. He had drunk what Buffy called tea. “Coffee, please.”

There was a silence while Buffy moved about in the kitchen; Willow, he thought, was almost asleep, but she roused when Buffy put a mug of very strong coffee in her hand, making a face at the bitterness of it, but drinking it all. They ate, without conversation; Giles recovered some rather stale cookies from a cupboard and the sugar seemed to help.

“O.K.,” said Buffy, pushing her plate aside. “So we can’t find Xander the witchy way. What’s Plan B?”

Giles looked up from his coffee to find Willow’s eyes on him expectantly too. Apparently it was his job to think of something.

“Well, it wasn’t entirely useless,” he said thoughtfully. “We know that he’s alive. We _don’t_ know why he can’t hear us. He ought to be able to: the, the link should be strong enough. Frankly, given how, how long I’ve known him, I would have expected him to be able to hear me when Willow kept the link open. I don’t understand that. I’m, I’m not sure if I’m more or less surprised that he couldn’t hear Willow. The connection with her is much more intense than with me, but, but it may have been that I’m not a strong enough magic user to keep the channel clear for her.”

Willow shook her head. “I don’t think there was anything to choose between us, Giles. He wasn’t hearing. I could see him, but it was like he was asleep.”

“Maybe he _was_ asleep?” suggested Buffy.

Willow shook her head again. “It shouldn’t matter. He should hear me anyway. Asleep isn’t maybe the way to describe it... more like he was switched off. In hibernation, like a laptop? I could see where to push to make him wake, but nothing happened when I did.”

“’Kay. Then shouting at him is the wrong plan, yeah? No use yelling at him to come home if he can’t hear us. So somebody has to go and get him, right?”

It sounded so easy.

“Buffy, we, we don’t have any idea where he is. Without a line back from him, we can see him but we can’t get a fix on where he is.”

“We got clues, though. You said Chad was a... Gorse?”

“Gorch. Not really a clue. Everybody knows the Gorch are slavers, so if you want a slave they would be where you started. But you don’t have to go to Gort to buy.”

“Freelancers,” said Buffy disgustedly. “’Kay. What about your informer?”

Giles shook his head. “I had every word of what he knew, I’m sure of it. It’s, it’s going to have to be plain old-fashioned leg-work, basic research. We know almost nothing.”

“What _do_ we know?”

Giles leaned his head back against the couch, and closed his eyes. He had been trained for this, he told himself: trained not only to Watch but also to see, to recollect, to analyse what he had seen.

“He’s alive. He’s thinner than he was but not badly so; he’s not being starved but he’s either not being fed quite enough, or he’s being worked. He didn’t look dehydrated. He was dirty at least once, which might tie in with the working.

“He had a collar on, a metal hoop with a disk hanging on it dogtag style. Identification? We never saw him close enough for me to see if there was anything on the tag. Willow?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t even notice it. Sorry.”

“Go on, Giles,” said Buffy; she had picked up his notepad and was scribbling down what he said. He searched his mind for the pictures of Xander he’d seen in the scrying bowl.

“His hair was long,” he said suddenly. “Noticeably longer than it was when I saw him last which was... just over two weeks ago? I would say a good two inches longer.”

Buffy frowned, obviously confused; Willow sat up. “Oh! So...”

He smiled at her triumphantly. “Temporal dislocation.” He glanced at Buffy. “He’s been wherever he is for more than the two weeks it’s been here. So it’s somewhere with a different timescale.”

“Oh God,” said Buffy quietly. “So he’s been, like, months maybe, thinking we’re not coming for him? Two inches on his hair? Three months? Six?”

It wiped the smile off Giles’ face, and sent him back to searching his memory.

“Dual suns,” Willow said slowly. “The sky was a sort of pale lilac. I suppose there’s no way of telling if that’s normal or an oddity. And... Giles, once there was a figure behind him, did you see? Tall and rather thin.”

“Very long fingers,” agreed Giles, calling up the picture. “And... Willow, the lower leg hinged like, like a bird, or... something with a short pastern.”

“A what?” asked Willow blankly; Giles reached over to take the notebook from Buffy and hastily drew a leg and foot, flexed the way he had seen.

“Cute,” observed Buffy, doubtfully. “Any more?”

No matter how he searched his mind, there was nothing more.

“Then it’s research,” agreed Willow.

 They had their own means of doing it, as they had done since the early days. Willow scoured the internet; Giles tore through book after book; Buffy found suspicious demons and elementals and hit them until they would have told her anything she wanted to know.

It was Willow who backed off first, sitting on Giles’ couch and staring into space for most of an evening. Giles recognised it as serious thought, and respectfully gave her space, refraining from questioning when she plugged in the laptop, and began to type furiously.

Buffy had an attack of domesticity and began to arrive with containers of food, and to insist that they stop work and eat. He heard her once commenting to Willow in a whisper on his stamina.

“How long can he keep up 18 hour days? And do you think he eats at all, except when I bring take-out?”

Willow had shaken her head. “Coffee. He probably ought not to have much more. I can’t work straight through the way he does, Buffy. I want to but I can’t.”

“How’s the programming?”

“Nearly finished.”

They had a few more clues: Willow had insisted that at least once in every 24 hours, they scry for Xander, however pointlessly. Every fourth or fifth time, they gained an extra clue and Giles celebrated the gain with them, and held back his comments that each clue was half a week more from their end, and they had no idea how much longer at Xander's.

“O.K., I’ve done it.” Willow’s pronouncement came at the end of a particularly unproductive weekend. He looked up.

“You have something?” He would have liked to have sounded hopeful, but he was too damn tired.

She looked awkward. “Not a... not exactly. I’ve written a search programme. Not your thing, Giles. I can feed in details of all the worlds we turn up, and it’ll compare them with what we know and we can look at the likely ones.” He looked blank, and she added “Like this,” and began to type.

He didn’t understand how it worked, but he saw by the time Buffy was dishing up pizza that where he had checked two worlds, she had checked two whole dimensions. He struggled, mentally, while he drank his tea; then he surrendered.

“How does it work?”

She explained it, but he was none the wiser; he peered at the screen and thrust down hard on his suspicion and dislike. He had the intellect for this; his disinclination was irrelevant. “It’s... it’s a form. You’re filling in a form.”

Her mouth went round and startled and he _saw_ her mind change gear. “Oh... oh, Giles, I see, you don’t mean ‘how does it work?’, do you? You mean ‘how do I work it?’” She sat down beside him. “It’s a form. You fill in as many of the boxes as you can. Any you can’t, you put a star, an asterisk in. That means it can use any value for that variable. So, like, that box...”

“Yes, I see,” he said distractedly. “But I need the little line thing to be in the box, don’t I? How do I get it there?”

She showed him how to do it with the little red wiggly thing on her keyboard, but he overshot the box twice.

“Or you can do it with the tab key. That’s...”

He’d got it, and he smirked at her surprise. “I can type, Willow. I had summer jobs with the Council when I was still at school; I did transcription work on an ancient Imperial typewriter. The senior secretary, Mrs Marshall, wouldn’t take me on until I did a touch-typing course.”

She giggled. “Keep tabbing through; it’ll go through all the boxes. If you miss the one you want, you’ll need the joystick to go back.”

“That’s all the boxes. Now what?”

She showed him.

They staggered the work after that; mostly she used the computer, and he returned to his books, but she continued to work when he ate, and then when she stopped, he took over the computer. He wasn’t as quick with it as she was, but they still moved on faster than before.

“Giles, this one looks possible.”

They set up the circle with the candle and herbs, called the inter-dimensional rift, and searched.

“Well, it would have been a bit unlikely to have hit it first time,” said Giles, as philosophically as he could manage; Willow nodded, but he looked away, pretending not to see the way her eyes filled and her chin wobbled. He knew that she had hoped for better.

They returned to the research; he had scolded Willow when she fell asleep on the couch, sending her upstairs to sleep for a few hours on his bed; Buffy had scolded him when she found two plates of congealing food kicked underneath his chair, and had made him leave the research and actually go out to eat in a diner, ordering three courses for him, and glaring at him until he ate them all.

“Willow, this one is promising.”

It promised much and delivered nothing. He swore, until he caught Buffy’s fascinated expression.

“I didn’t know you _knew_ that phrase, Giles.”

“Ah... it’s not actually as rude in England as it is here.”

More research. And another: “Try this one, Giles?”

It wasn’t much of a trace, but they could both see it, and when they concentrated together, they could see Xander, faintly and out of focus, but recognisable at the end of it.

“Now what?” asked Buffy, ever the pragmatist.

“Now we go for him,” said Willow, excitedly.

“Now we research some more,” said Giles, flatly.

They looked at him. He looked back. “We’re not just barrelling in, like, like something from one of Xander's comic books. We’re considering the possibilities, we’re reconnoitring until we know what the likely risks are, we’re making a _plan_. We’re deciding who’s going, what they’re going to do, and how. I, I know you want to go right this minute and drag Xander out by his hair, but, but I don’t think we can. For a start, we know there’s a temporal dislocation but we don’t know if it’s a regular one or a time-slip or what. If we just grab Xander, we don’t know if the reaction will be ‘what happened to the slave? Oh well, get another one’ or ‘lock the doors, call the police and search everybody’.” He hesitated. “And, and I’m rather uneasy about Xander himself. He should have been aware of us looking for him, given the types of spells we were using. If he wasn’t, there’s, there’s something wrong and I want to know what it is. That might give us another problem: not just a, a pissed-off owner screaming ‘where are you going with my property?’ but a terrified Xander going ‘help! Kidnap!’”

Willow opened her mouth to argue, and then bit her lip. “Yeah. O.K. I see that. Just... can we do it real quick?”

“As fast as we possibly can,” he promised, “but without compromising anybody’s safety. It won’t help Xander if you and I end up in the auction as Lots 9 and 10 because we weren’t careful enough.”

It took another two days, and Giles had to bite his tongue to stop himself saying ‘See? I told you so.”

“So I can’t go,” mourned Willow miserably. He shook his head.

“It’s plain enough. Coblan magic is not compatible with female earth magic. It’s barely compatible with male earth magic.”

“Which means what?” asked Buffy, cautiously.

“It means that if Willow goes, she’s powerless from a magical point of view, and if she stays any length of time, she’ll come back with her power seriously depleted, possibly permanently.”

“Not of the good. And if... what about me?”

He exchanged glances with Willow. “I think... Buffy, I, I know you want to go. I know you’re anxious to get Xander back, but you’re the Slayer.”

“Giles...”

“You’re the Slayer. You have responsibilities.” He stopped. He knew from bitter experience that if he pushed too hard, Buffy would kick over the traces and Slayer responsibilities could go hang. A sudden thought struck him, though. “And, and I have absolutely _no_ idea whether Slayer power counts as female earth magic, but I would have thought it very likely.”

Buffy’s shoulders slumped. “S’pose. ‘Kay, I get it. It’s gotta be you, Giles.” She stared at him, suddenly unsure. “I mean... you will go, yeah? I know you and Xander, not so much with the best buddies lately, but...”

“But whatever my personal feelings about how he got into this mess,” he said gently, “I wouldn’t leave him there, no. I’ll go.”

“And it won’t be a problem with you doing magic, Giles; you’re sure?” That was Willow.

“I can’t do much there; I’ll not quite be powerless the way you would be, but I won’t have much. Using it won’t have any permanent effect on me. I’m sure. Anyway, we’ve already discussed this: I’m going to investigate, we’ll discuss it, we’ll make a detailed plan. Willow, you have to watch the time differential; I won’t be able to do it. I’ll look for Xander but getting us out will be your job.”

She nodded, with conviction. “I’m on it, Giles.”

He hoped so.


	9. Giles 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Librarians bonding

“You ready, Giles?”

He flexed his shoulders, and nodded. Ready as he would ever be.

“’Kay. I’ll check for you every 24 hours _at least_ from this end. More often if I can. You got your bag?”

He had that. He didn’t care for Coblan clothes but tweed on a world as hot as that one would be unbearable. He felt stupid wearing a tunic and loose trousers, but he would at least fit in. There were enough human visitors – and some day he was going to investigate where they went, and why, and how – to make him reasonably inconspicuous.

“Buffy and I will keep up the research while you’re gone.”

He nodded again, his mind already occupied in what he was going to do. Willow was not babbling precisely, but repeating things they had already agreed, simply because she was nervous.

He was nervous himself; he had told her as much. It hadn't seemed to help. He looked at Buffy, who smiled encouragingly at him; then he nodded abruptly at Willow, and she opened the link.

He stepped through into an alleyway, and as he glanced over his shoulder, the bubble with Willow’s face in it wobbled, and popped. He was on his own. Well. First things first: he was a tourist. A tourist needed an hotel room, and a city map, and a what-to-see plan. This tourist was going to view the slave markets.

He loathed them. _Loathed_ them. He knew he was losing his grip when he found himself wondering if he could afford to buy a juvenile Khish female, simply because he could see that the auction house had absolutely no idea how she should be fed. She would be dead within a day. His nails bit into his palms: she would be dead within a day even if he bought her; he had no way to feed her, keep her, or return her to her own dimension. Dead girl walking, and all he could give himself as comfort was that it wouldn’t take long. He refused to allow himself to wonder if she knew that too.

He fingered the little case containing a photograph of Xander; he wasn’t going to produce it until he must. He started with civil, not-very-interested enquiries. Did the market do much in the way of trade in humans? Did it pay well? What sort of merchandise passed through? Was it a specialist trade? Oh, it was? Who were the dealers?

And on, now showing the picture. He believed the transaction had occurred somewhere here... no, nothing untoward in it, all strictly above board, but he was interested in how it had turned out. He was aware that in some places, human livestock hadn't settled well, had been prone to local diseases, that sort of thing. Wondered what they were doing here. No, not a trader: he was an academic. Researcher. Major piece of work in hand on how to keep stock healthy, with a sponsorship from big pharma; simply curious, and following up a single piece of data to see if a bigger sample would be worth testing. No idea how the slave in question had been picked out: he had told his intern to find him three or four, and the first one he had looked for, the trail went dead after a brothel on Mercon.

The fourth time he said his piece, the auctioneer frowned. “Think he came through here, yes. Went to... come into the office, sir, I’ll look it up for you. No, no trouble; I’m interested in what you’re doing, actually. I’ll admit, we’ve had some trouble with illnesses among the stock, and there are one or two breeds we’ll not touch now. They seem to be too sensitive, if you know what I mean; they just don’t thrive at all. If you do go ahead with your research, you should come and talk to the stockmen here. Obviously I’d need to arrange convenient times, but they know a good deal about it, and you know, keeping the animals healthy is good business for us. There’s no profit margin on damaged stock.”

Giles agreed between his teeth that this was true, and followed the auctioneer into a large office. He left half an hour later with a name and address, a certain amount of gossip, some detailed information and a pounding headache.

Naturally, being Giles, he also had the address of a library, or the local equivalent. And being Giles, he was able to make contact with the librarian – or local equivalent – and connect well enough that his lack of permanent address and complete ignorance of regional ordinance was no bar to being made free of the books – or local equivalent.

Then he researched, making desperate notes, until the librarian began doing the Coblan version of jingling his keys and banging drawers. Giles got up.

“I’m obliged to you; you, you have things here I’ve heard of but never been able to find.”

The librarian twisted to see what he was carefully replacing on the (correct) shelf. “You don’t have Borrin on your world?”

“Not the third volume. We have to make do with McAuliffe.”

“Make... make _do_? McAuliffe? McAuliffe is still in print with you?”

There was an exchange of librarianly glances, and the librarian hooked a notepad across his desk and scribbled down an address. “You might like to look in here. Second hand and antiquarian books, some artefacts. The books tend to be the commoner ones here, but if your idea of common isn’t the same as mine... and this one, it’s on the main boulevard, rather more of a specialist market here but...”

“Oh, indeed, yes, thank you, I, I shall take a look. I’m, I’m really on holiday, but you know how it is when you come across books you can’t get at home. And I have a little research project while I’m here, just to occupy the idle hour. I’m sure I shall be in again, if you don’t mind that I have no official accreditation...”

“We can always find room for a proper academic, of course. Pleasure to meet you.”

“And you. I, I shall see you again.”

He was thoughtful on his way back to his hotel; he did indeed call at both the bookshops, and at several more recommended by the librarian over the next week, and his research notes expanded across his desk.

The shimmering disk with Willow’s face inside was a relief.

“Willow? How, how long was that at your end?”

“Six hours.”

“A week here. I’ve, I’ve been researching: I don’t believe it’s a regular time difference. It will be bigger or smaller depending on, well, depending on about twenty variables. I’ve got, I think I have a trace on Xander, but I’ll need to make contact with his, his owners. Well, obviously. Have, have you got anything new?”

She nodded. “I’ve tracked down the hex on him. I don’t know how they did it, Giles. They way I’m reading it, they couldn't enslave him without... Giles, it sounds like he _consented_. He had to say, in front of witnesses, that he...” She swallowed and Giles winced.

“I, I think... oh good lord. Oh good _lord_. Chad did it at Serpentine, and I was the witness. He asked Xander if he, if Xander belonged to Chad. I thought it was, was...”

“Was lovebird talk,” Willow finished for him sadly. He bowed his head.

“I missed it. I _missed_ it! I’m supposed to be a bloody _Watcher_ , I’m supposed to know a fucking _demon_ when I see one, it’s, it’s... I’m supposed to keep you all _safe_ and I didn’t bloody _do_ it!” He paced the room, breathing hard, ignoring Willow’s squeaks of denial and comfort. She called him twice before he turned back to her.

“Listen, Giles, I got some stuff too. The reason we couldn’t make Xander hear us is that he probably doesn’t remember anything from before. If I’ve read it right, he has no recollection of anything before he got there.”

He considered that, uncertain whether it made things better or worse.

“But listen, Giles, he needs to know, needs to remember, before you can bring him back. If you try to take him through otherwise, he’ll get lost in the inter-dimensional interstices.”

Giles frowned. “Why? He doesn’t need to know where he’s going – if he did, none of us could ever go anywhere we had never been and, and all movement between dimensions would be impossible.”

“It’s to do with the hex, it stops him leaving without permission. It’s a, a, I’ve written it all down for you but I don’t understand how it works. But I’m sure, Giles!”

He nodded. She was a careful researcher. If she said it was so, it was so. It made sense, he supposed: a means of stopping a slave bolting, or stopping a thief from making off with one.

“How, how can I remind him who he is? Do I just tell him?”

She shook her head, and he saw her shuffle scraps of paper. “He has to remember by himself. I think... don’t tell him who you are, Giles. I think you’re O.K. telling him that you know him, but don’t tell him your name. Or his name either. Or Buffy’s, or mine.” Her voice cracked and he looked away while she recovered. “You need to wait for him to remember. The hex they put on him, that wears off at intervals. Apparently slave owners have to renew the hexes about once a month, a sorta housekeeping thing? So if you can get hold of him and just wait, he’ll remember by himself, eventually. Might take a while, but he will. And... and there are power words.”

“I know about those,” he said, abruptly. “I learned about them in the, in the market and I’ve done some research here too. There’s something called a Bond-Word. Every slave,” and he gagged on the word as it applied to Xander, “every slave is... I suppose the nearest we know to it is hypnotism. He’ll have been hypnotised and then given this, this Bond-Word. It, it imposes absolute obedience on him for an hour or so. It’s used...” he tailed off, suddenly realising that he had no desire to tell Willow why somebody might want a completely pliant and unresisting individual who would object to absolutely _nothing_ that another person might want to do. “I, I suppose if I can find out what Xander's Bond-Word is, I might use it to get him away from wherever...”

Willow squeaked. “No, Giles, you can’t! The more often it’s used, the worse it will be! Every time it’s used, it makes the hex stronger; it’s part of what they do at the monthly renewal thing. If you use it, you’ll wipe out all the good of letting the hex wear off.”

“Damn. All right, Willow. Listen, I have about half a plan, but I’m, I’m going to need to stay here, obviously. I need you to, I need you to do some things for me.”

She nodded. “Sure. What?”

He handed over two envelopes. “Those, those need to be posted, airmail, as soon as you can.”

She glanced at them. “The Council? Giles, are you telling the Council what we’re doing?”

“I must,” he said shortly. “They’ll be aware that I’m not in America; I don’t want them meddling, and besides, I...” He hesitated. “I need some, some resources, and I can’t think of anywhere except the Council to get them. The, the other one is my bank; things are expensive here, and I, I need... well, it doesn’t matter, it’s a Council backed bank account so nobody will have a nosebleed that I’m using my credit card in another dimension. And, and do you know where my copy of McAuliffe is?”

“Here,” she said promptly. “I was using it last night. Do you want it?”

“Please. I’m, I’m going to give it to somebody here, who’s been helpful. Get me another copy, will you? I, I think that’s all, Willow; keep looking for me, won’t you? I, I’m likely to be moving soon; is that a problem? I mean, can you find me directly? You don’t need me to be here every time, do you?”

She shook her head. “Link will open where you are, and I’ll open it a tiny bit to check you’re alone.”

“Good, good. I think that’s all. What’s happening back there?”

She made a face. “Vamp outbreak behind the parking garage. Buffy’s on it. She thinks there’s a nest somewhere on the business park.”

“Tell her to be careful.” He knew it wasn’t necessary and Willow laughed at him.

“Well, duh, Giles. Slayer?”

He missed her after she closed the connection.

It was a few days before he felt himself fit to start on his plan. He gave up his hotel room and rented a house on the smart side of town; he moved about the markets and spent rather a lot of money on various books. He went back to the auction house and spoke again to the auctioneer; in a passing conversation he managed to establish not only the sum for which Xander had changed hands, but also an approximation of what had been paid for two weeks intense training.

He converted that to sterling, and winced.

The gift of McAuliffe was well worth it; the librarian was more than inclined to oblige him in anything he wanted and it was easy enough to hint for an introduction to the sort of people he would, on his own world, have avoided at all costs. Once moving on the edges of the smart set, a little judicious talk and some conspicuous consumption earned him an introduction to a land-owning couple with upwardly mobile ambitions.

Mention of a few contacts, some of which he actually _had_ , earned him, in turn, an invitation to what he found himself viewing, with some amusement, as the equivalent of a 1920s English weekend house party. Given that his experience of these was non-existent and his perception of them was based almost entirely on Golden Age English detective fiction, he rather hoped that nobody would be dead by Monday morning.

Specifically, he hoped that _he_ wouldn't be dead by Monday morning.

He first saw Xander at pre-dinner drinks, and it cost him something in self-control to continue his conversation with his neighbour, about local politics, about which he knew nothing (not that it mattered: she wanted to instruct him on her opinions, not to hear his) rather than to stare. The houseboy was moving quietly around the room, bringing drinks at first, and then holding a tray of appetisers; Giles eventually collected a small group of like-minded individuals to talk about the scandalous iniquity of the local council, which allowed him to look interested, hold his tongue and observe discreetly.

He was relieved to see that Xander appeared to be in good health; if anything, he had lost weight and muscled up since Giles had seen him last. It wasn’t hard to see that: he was bare-chested, bare-legged, and wearing only sandals and a scandalously short kilt. Around his neck was a fine chain and a flat disk, the same one Giles had observed when he and Willow had been searching, and which he now knew carried Xander's slave registration, and his owner’s contact details. His hair had been allowed to grow long, and was clubbed at the nape of his neck into a thick plait that doubled under itself. His eyes were exaggerated with some sort of black paint.

He looked up once, into Giles’ face, as he knelt with his tray, and Giles thought his expression changed to faint bewilderment, puzzlement almost.

He allowed himself to be a little hopeful about that.

He was cautious; that evening, he made polite conversation with his hostess and with the two ladies on either side of him at dinner, describing in great detail an exotic Earth location where he had never been, because they both thought of it as a fashionable holiday location. He discussed Pliny and Tacitus with another guest, far into the night, and totally ignored the houseboy who was sent to retrieve book after book from his host’s library.

He lay sleepless for much of the night, writhing with indecision about whether his plan was going to work and what he could do if it didn’t.

The next evening, he managed to turn the conversation with his host to health issues as they appertained to slaves, and then specifically to human slaves, and dragged in the ‘research’ story.

“You saw my boy last night?”

 “I noticed him, yes.”

His host smiled into his wineglass. “My wife was very pleased with him. The in thing, you know? She liked the idea of having a human boy; I believe by your standards, he’s pretty?”

Giles dug his fingernails into his own thigh. “He isn’t by yours?”

A sideways shake of the head. “He is, but the species differences... we’re pleased with him, don’t get me wrong, but I’m actually beginning to think that we would have done better, fashion or no fashion, to have chosen something we could send to a supplier or a customer’s bed.”

He refused to allow himself any hesitation at all. “You haven’t done that?”

“Not suitable, not for the business contacts we’ve had here lately. Maybe next year we’ll have more human contacts.”

He gritted his teeth to prevent himself snarling. “Yes, I know how it goes. You think you’ve had a wonderful idea and then you get it, and it doesn’t work _quite_ the way you think it’s going to. What would you do with the boy? Keep him as a second string, or sell him on?”

His host shrugged; with double jointed shoulders it was an impressive sight. Time to let the question drop. 


	10. K71B 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Small amount of mutual dub-con.

He managed to be completely at odds about it in his head: at the same time, he was startled, shocked, scared, horrified even, and totally unsurprised. He had known it would happen sooner or later.

He’d been on table service, and then kitchen duties, all night; it had gone well, and there had been a lot by way of scraps and leftovers, which the cook had let him and the kitchen scrub girl and the boy who did the heavy cleaning share. They’d finished clearing the last of the dishes and had put away the glasses and plates, and the others were dismissed to the kennel yard, but he was sent back up to the library. He hoped it was just to remake the fire but... he was never certain if he had really felt in his gut that something different was happening, or if it was just afterwards that he thought he must have known.

He was inspected to make certain that he looked as he should, and the order he had feared was given; his mind went blank instantly.

He didn’t even think of disobeying; he crept nervously up the back stairs, along the corridor, and tapped on the closed door. A voice answered; he assumed that it was permission to enter.

He knew what he had to do: he just didn’t want to do it. But he had no choice: the man was standing at the window, bare-chested and barefoot, and he closed the door, knelt and said as clearly as his shaking voice would allow, “The Master wishes me to enquire if there is any service I could perform for the honoured visitor.”

His gut twisted.

The visitor looked at him for a long moment. “Come here, please.”

The ‘please’ disconcerted him: nobody said ‘please’ to a houseboy, but he began to crawl forward.

“No, not like that. Stand up, please.”

He bit down the panic: the visitor wasn’t doing what he had been trained to expect. But the base rule, the rule that outranked all other rules, was ‘Obey!’ He stood, eyes cast meekly downward.

“Come here.”

Panic again: he had obliged the visitor to repeat a command. His breath came short and tight in his chest.

“Don’t be afraid. Come closer.”

It was the tall man, the human visitor – well, _duh_ , of course it was. There was no point in sending him to any of the others, he couldn’t... he could serve as their body slave, but most of them had brought their own, and he _couldn't_ serve as their bed slave. He approached, as he had been told, and knelt again, head lowered, and one hand forward to touch the visitor’s bare foot.

He thought the man jumped. That couldn't be right.

“Look at me.”

Terror gripped him. _No_ part of his training had taught him to deal with this. _Obey!_

He looked up.

“Do you know me?”

He cast his eyes down. “You are the Master’s guest, and the Master wishes me to be your humble slave.”

That was odd. The man’s foot flexed.

“Look at me. Don’t look away. Do you know me?”

He looked into the man’s eyes, and no answer came to him. The man sighed.

“Well, worth a try, I, I suppose. What does your Master want you to do?”

Well, _duh_ again. “Whatever the honoured visitor requires. I can run his bath, I can give him a massage, I can bring him anything this poor house contains which he desires.” He swallowed. “I... I am not trained as a bed slave, but if the honoured visitor desires such services as I can afford, I will give him such pleasure as my limited skills permit.”

The visitor’s mouth thinned; he trembled. “And what skills do you have? What have you been trained to do?”

That was easier; he knew the correct answer to that one. “My hands and my mouth are for the honoured visitor to command; I have some training.” He knew what else he had to say; the dark woman had beaten it into him. “I am not trained otherwise but if the honoured visitor wants my ass, then my Master says to him to take what he wants.” Oh please not, please not, please not...  

The man’s foot flexed again, but his face didn’t change.

“What’s your name?”

“I am called whatever the honoured visitor wishes to call me.”

From the way the man’s mouth tightened, that was the wrong answer; he cringed.

“What do you call yourself?”

No, honestly, this wasn’t _fair_! He hadn't been trained to answer any of this.

“What does your Master call you?”

Triple _duh_. “He calls me ‘Boy’.”

“Not even bloody accurate. Very well.” The man stepped back from him, and sat down on the end of the bed. He didn’t know whether to stay where he was, or to follow; after a moment’s hesitation, he twisted on his knees to face the visitor.

“Where did you come from? How did you get to be in this house?”

“The Master bought me.”

“Where were you before you were bought?”

He didn’t know, he had no idea how to answer this stuff, and the visitor saw that. “Do you know?”

“No, sir.”

“How did you get to be a slave?”

It seemed that ignorance was not to be punished; he relaxed a tiny amount. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Do you remember anything from the time before you were a slave? Your childhood? Your education?”

He shook his head.

“Damn.” The man’s mouth was a hard straight line; presently he relaxed a little. “Look at me. Into my eyes, please.”

He did as he was told and he felt everything shift slightly, almost the way it had done when they had given him his Bond-Word. He started to look away, but the man caught his chin in a harsh grip and kept his face turned up; he didn’t dare close his eyes. The grip released; he rocked on his knees.

“I’m afraid she was right. The lights are on, aren’t they, but there’s nobody home.” The visitor’s tone was mocking but somehow he didn’t think that _he_ was being mocked; it was more as if the man was laughing at himself. “Ah... you said you weren’t trained as a...” He trailed off, looking embarrassed.

“As a bed-slave. No, sir, but if it’s what the honoured visitor wants, I can...”

“It isn’t. Have you, that is, are you sent often, have you had to do that?”

He shook his head. “I regret that if the honoured visitor wants a virgin, I am not one. At least I think I’m not. But the Master hasn’t sent me to a visitor’s bed, so I’ll be tight.”

The man’s mouth fell open, and his eyes bugged for a moment; then he passed one hand over his face and grinned. “It’s just as well I didn’t bring... her with me: this conversation would be, to use her own vernacular, wigging her totally. I hope most sincerely that you don’t remember this later. In fact, I hope _I_ don’t remember it later. All right, that’ll do, you can go.”

He was horrified. “I am not pleasing to the honoured visitor?”

“What? Oh... I don’t need any service, thank you.”

He trembled, and the man saw it. His voice hardened again. “You can tell them I didn’t need anything but I appreciate the offer.”

He pushed himself up, head hanging. “Yes, sir.” The door was a hundred miles away.

“Wait.”

He stopped and turned back.

“Will somebody be angry with you?”

This was past ‘well, _duh_ ’. “The Master wished that I should please the honoured visitor. I have not pleased him.”

“Will you get into trouble for it? Even if I say that I wanted nothing?”

He kept his eyes down. “I have not...”

“Yes, I heard you the first time.”

His skin prickled; the man was prowling the room; he didn’t dare turn to look.

“What will happen to you?”

His hands crept unbidden to the back of his kilt. It was known throughout the house that he was to have no _visible_ marks; he was to be available as an ornament at all times.

“Show me.”

There was no arguing with that tone – it was even more definite than the kennel-master, or the Master. He turned, and hitched his kilt, displaying his ass. It didn’t hurt still, but there were several straight weals marking the time three days before when he had turned the Master’s riding-beast into the wrong field and then been unable to catch the creature again to move it. The stable-boy had laughed; the stable-master had not.

The silence disturbed him; he risked a glance over his shoulder into the man’s face, and dropped silently to his knees, more frightened yet.

“Run my bath.”

He scrambled to his feet and bolted to the bathroom, forgetting in his terror to enquire as to the visitor’s preferences. Fortunately the man followed him a couple of minutes later, dipping a hand in the water and nodding abrupt approval. “You can wait outside.”

He glanced at the back-scrubber and towels, and tried to think of a humble way to offer service again, but the man smiled drily at him, and added, “I’ll call if I need anything.”

Well, that was clear enough. He backed out, and looked frantically around the bedroom. He mustn’t panic; he _did_ know what he had to do. Close the drapes. Turn back the bed. Turn _on_ the bedside lamp, and _off_ the main lights. Tidy the room, always with an ear for movement from the bathroom. Make sure that there was fruit in the bowl and crackers in the tin. Pour water into the glass and place glass and carafe on nightstand. Strip off his kilt and shoes and tuck them out of sight beneath the bed, and then kneel in the centre of the floor, head bowed, hands behind his back, and wait. The visitor would call when he was ready to be dried.

He didn’t; he came out wearing loose sleep shorts and pulling a comb through his hair, and squawked in what sounded like surprise.

“What part of ‘I don’t need...’ No, never mind. Never mind.” He moved to the bed, and pulled the covers apart, holding out a blanket. “Here. You can sleep on that chaise longue.”

Huh? His training didn’t cover that either: he would be expected to go immediately after... after, or a generous visitor might let him sleep on the floor, or a really, _really_ generous visitor might keep him in the bed. But... well, it was a clear enough instruction. He took the blanket and backed up to the couch.

“Have you been fed tonight?” The visitor was holding out the box of crackers.

“No... yes.”

The man cocked his head on one side and considered the answer. “Eat some of those. And a piece of fruit as well, if you like.” He waited and then said impatiently, “Go on, do as you’re told. I can see that you want them.”

He ate, hastily, trying to be neat.

“Now, roll yourself in that blanket and go to sleep. I don’t require anything else tonight.”

So just obey. It was _beyond_ weird, but it was clear enough.

He woke with the light, as he always did; when he was in his cage he had nothing to keep the light out, so he roused at dawn. He was expected to be available to work any time after that.

He lay quietly for a gloriously long time, secure in the knowledge that the visitor had told him to stay and he couldn’t be punished for not being in the yard. When he heard the house begin to stir he began to wonder what he should do. The visitor had said he needed nothing else _last night_ ; he had given no clues about the morning.

Well, he had better do what he knew was expected. He disentangled himself from the blanket, and slipped into the bathroom. A lack of cleanliness always resulted in punishment. Then he padded back to the bedroom.

The visitor had turned on his back and the bedclothes were pushed down across his waist. He was still breathing steadily, but he had begun to shift at the sounds from outside. Normally, there would be a wake-up call within half an hour or so.

He swallowed hard. He could do this. He had been trained for it, and the man had been kind to him, and it was his duty. Master hadn't had to spell out what he was to do: he _knew_ what was expected of him. He just had to do it. He padded to the bed and looked down. The man was pleasant looking; he had lines around his eyes, but they looked like the lines of somebody who smiled often.

He had been kind. He knew that the boy was only half trained. He wouldn’t be angry if...

That sort of thinking didn’t go anywhere of the good. Just get on with it.

He crawled onto the bed, and as lightly as possible, tugged the sheet free. The man muttered something, and his head turned, but that was all. The button on his shorts was easily undone; he was half hard already, just normal morning wood.

He leaned in, touching his lips lightly to the tender skin; the man muttered again. He could do this. A long lick elicited a sigh, and another slight shift of position. He tickled his fingertips lightly up the man’s shaft, and took the head of his cock into his mouth. It wasn’t difficult; it wasn’t even unpleasant, not the way it had been with the woman and her... devices. The man made a comfortable humming sound, and he hummed back, and flickered his tongue.

“Oh, God, Ethan, yes... holy _fuck_!”

He yelped with pain; the man had a hand _hard_ in his hair, and was dragging him off, both of them wild-eyed and panic-stricken. He scrambled off the bed, fell on the floor, not even kneeling but prostrated, whimpering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Master, I’m sorry!”

“What in the name of... oh good lord!”

He scrabbled under the bed for his sandals and kilt. He was _so_ dead. The Master was going to kill him, and he didn’t even know what he’d _done._ It hadn't been _that_ bad a blowjob, had it? The man had seemed to be liking it well enough, and he’d hardly started.

“Oh good _lord_.”

Yeah, he’d said that already. Oh, he was in _soooo_ much trouble now. “I’m sorry, Master, I’m sorry, I... I’ll go, I’m sorry!”

The man pinned him with a glare that made him whimper again. “Stay where you bloody are! Don’t you dare move!” The bathroom door crashed and it was all just so _awful_ but he’d been told to stay, so he pulled his knees under him, and put his forehead to the carpet. Perhaps if he was very quiet and submissive, the man would beat him himself rather than complaining about him to the Master.

He still didn’t know what he’d _done_.

The door clicked again and the man came back, circled the bed and did something on the other side; he didn’t dare look up to see, but when the legs came back, they were encased in pants.

“Sit up.”

He _so_ didn’t want to, but he pushed himself up to his knees, head still lowered submissively.

“Did I hurt you?”

That startled him so much that he did look up; the visitor was frowning, but... not like the kennel-master frowned when he screwed up a task, more like... like he was worried. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry that I... you startled me.”

The visitor was apologising. Apologising to a _slave_? He couldn’t make that fit at all.

“I have not pleased the honoured visitor.”

“Oh, for... We’re not having that again. I didn’t... I don’t need any service of that type. I’m not going to tell your owner that you didn’t please me.” He rubbed his face, as if thinking. “I, I, oh good lord, I need a cup of coffee.”

Well, he didn’t know what coffee was, but he understood the principle. “The honoured visitor wishes to breakfast in his room today?”

The man stared at him. “Yes. Yes, please. Can you arrange that for me?”

He nodded, standing up and wrapping his kilt around him, stepping into his sandals. He could feel that his braid was crooked; he would have to stop and rework it before he could be seen by any of the visitors. “Does the honoured visitor have preferences as to what he wishes to eat?”

There was a pause, and the man smiled slowly. “I’m not familiar with the breakfast dishes here. Bring me... being me a selection of the things you like yourself.” He added, contemplatively, “I’m rather hungry.”

He nodded, and took himself off as quickly as he could, so that he could be bewildered in peace. In the kitchen, the cook made a suggestive remark, and the scrub girl and boy sniggered; he pretended not to hear them, and began to gather flatware on a tray. The cook set a pot on the table for him. “What does he want to eat?”

He blanked for a moment, and then came to look at the burners and hotplates. “He said I should just,” he thought of saying ‘bring him what _I_ like’ and thought better of it. “Just bring him a selection. He said he was hungry,” he added naïvely.

The cook sniggered again. “Worn him out, have you? Fetch plates and a cup, then, and we’ll send up something to strengthen the inner man. If we don’t see you by lunchtime I’ll send the boy up with high-protein foods.”

The boy had to come anyway: he couldn’t manage everything on a single tray. The visitor was in the bathroom so he set the food out as attractively as he could manage on the small table, and then retreated to the corner and knelt. The man emerged, bare-chested again, and rubbing at his hair.

“Ah, breakfast. Excellent. Come here.”

He was about to crawl, and then remembered the previous night, and stood, walking over to kneel beside the man’s legs.

He wasn’t fed as a pet would be, by hand, but still he ended up eating, he thought in bewilderment, more than half of the food he had carried upstairs. He didn’t think he had eaten so well since... ever. It couldn’t be right, but when he allowed the visitor to feed him, the man smiled and was pleased; when he tried to back away and serve, the smile vanished, and although the visitor wasn’t angry, it plainly wasn’t what he wanted.

It was very strange; afterwards he was dismissed, told to take the tray back to the kitchen and thank the cook, and that the visitor didn’t need him any more, he could go about his ordinary duties.

He would never have expected to _hope_ that he would be told to go a second time to serve an honoured visitor.


	11. K71B 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: flogging. Again. Nudity.

He wasn’t sent again. He spent the next night in his cage, miserable for a reason he didn’t altogether know, and the morning after, he set about his work with some determination, refusing to think any more about what had happened. After all, what had? He had been sent to a visitor, who had been kind to him; he was entitled to nothing more than that and should simply be grateful for what he had experienced.

It was late in the afternoon that he was called from the yard and told to get himself clean and to go to the Master’s office. As he scrubbed the worst of the barn taint from his skin, as far as he could in cold water without soap, he racked his brain to know why. The Master’s office was never good: he had never been there except when he was to be punished. He didn’t think he had _done_ anything warranting punishment – unless the visitor had, after all, complained?

He tapped at the door; when he was called inside, the visitor was there.

His breath came short – partly that the Master would be pissed and he would pay for it, and partly that, that, that he hadn't believed that the visitor _would_ complain, and he had no right to be disappointed, but oh, he _so_ was.

“You understand, he’s had no training other than...”

The visitor was nodding. “It’s not a problem. Honestly. I, I’m more interested in the health thing, to tell the truth. I don’t _need_ him as, as, to provide service. He’s study data, that’s all.”

Huh? He stared, and then suddenly recollected himself and dropped to his knees, eyes down. Even with his gaze lowered, he could still see the Master moving to the stand in the corner in which the whip lived. He bit back a whine of purest self-pity. He didn’t even know what he had _done_.

“Well, then, as long as you’re certain... Up, boy.”

He stood, and to his surprise the Master attached cuffs to his wrists; he hadn't worn cuffs since his first week in the house. A hand in his back pushed him through the house, along the corridors from which he was usually banned, the visitor following behind.

“You understand the formalities?”

“I, I understand that you must, ah, drive him from your house. That the transaction isn’t legal otherwise.”

“Just so... Oh, you won’t have a leash for him, will you? I’ll give you one, we always have half a dozen knocking around the place. Unless you would rather leave him and he can be delivered with your luggage?”

The visitor showed his teeth; it didn’t look exactly like a smile. “I’ll take him with me. Once he’s mine, I would prefer to keep him under my eye.”

A small, terrible hope began to warm his chest, coupled with a crippling fear. He knew about a slave being driven from the house. He remembered, only too clearly, the legalities that had taken him _into_ the house. It wasn’t something he was anxious to repeat, but he could think of nothing else that would have him taken to the front door, the Master’s door, the main entrance to the house. He had passed through it precisely once, when he had arrived from his training. Now, it stood open, and the Master slipped a small hook into the chain linking the cuffs on his wrists, and tugged on something which pulled his arms high above his head, leaving him straining for his balance, face against the wood of the door. The visitor stepped to one side; he could see him if he turned his head a little. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did know: the man was angry. He disguised it well, but he was angry. He turned his face a little further, looking into the man’s face. He knew what was coming.

There was a sharp tug and his kilt slithered down his legs. The man met his gaze, and he felt almost as if... he couldn’t remember, but he clenched his jaw, and saw, or thought he saw, the smallest imaginable nod, which might have been approval.

The whip fell, hard, on his shoulders. He could have taken it in silence, he thought, if the blows had come more slowly, but the Master always whipped _fast_. Five stripes, and his back was ablaze. He hadn't screamed, not yet, but he was panting hard, and there was a note of anguish in every exhalation.

Five more on his ass, and _fuck_ but they hurt, he couldn’t get his breath and the second one on the tender skin of his bare thighs made him howl, and then of course, he couldn’t stop, however much he wanted to be brave for the visitor. He couldn’t manage to keep still: he danced and the stripes on his calves were slower and harder on account of it.

The strain on his wrists gave so suddenly that he almost hit himself in the face with the cuffs. “And hereby I send you from my household.”

He staggered, caught himself, and the visitor put a hand out to him, gripping one wrist, his face like stone. The other hand went to his neck, and he heard a click as his tag came away from his collar.

“You have the new one?”

The man nodded, affixing it; Master unfastened the cuffs, and his hands fell to his sides. He wanted to squirm with the pain in his back and legs, but the visitor was running a finger inside his collar to make the new tag lie flat. He stood still.

“Dress yourself.” That was the visitor; he bent, stiffly, for his kilt, and as he fastened it, the visitor attached a leash to his collar, and turned back to the Master. “I’m obliged to you; this will be a lot more convenient for me than, than chasing data through whore-houses and agencies.”

“Oh, not at all. I admit, I’m not sorry to find somebody with more use for him than he got here: he didn’t turn out to be what we needed, but...”

He stopped listening, trying to still the shriek of pain in his body as they exchanged courtesies. Sold. He was sold. He was sold to the visi... He was sold to New Master. He kept his head lowered, sneaking glances as often as he dared. New Master wasn’t pleased. He could tell. Old Master didn’t seem to get it, but _he_ knew. New Master was _not_ pleased. He was frightened by how forbidding New Master looked.

“Oh, and you’ll need his Bond-Word, of course.”

New Master raised a hand, hastily. “Write it for me? I, I don’t want to start with him influenced.”

That got a surprised look but Old Master obligingly wrote it in New Master’s notebook; New Master read it, raised one eyebrow and nodded. “Is, is that everything?”

“He’s all yours.”

He expected a tug on the leash, but it didn’t come. New Ma... Master stepped forward confidently, and he followed. He knew how to behave in public. Half a step behind and a step to the left, and paying _attention_ so that Master didn’t _need_ to yank on the leash. And curiously, he felt safe there, in Master’s shadow. Normally he hated walking out: he’d had to do it with Mistress, and he’d hated feeling that people were looking at him, even thought they probably weren’t because who wanted to look at a slave? Now he felt again that they were and maybe this time they _actually_ were, because they could tell from the stripes on his back and legs that he was newly sold.

“I’m sorry about the collar and lead,” said Master tightly, without looking round, “but they’re necessary, at least in public. I’m not bloody losing you now.”

He couldn’t think of an answer, so he kept close since that seemed to be what Master wanted.

They walked through the market. He liked the market: there was always something going on, but he hadn't usually been allowed to look around him much. He hadn't been trusted to go on his own. He tried not to stare now; Master had slowed, but his duty was to pay attention to Master, who was making an odd sound and turning towards a stall with clothes on it.

“I’m not sure that I like you in skirts, and I’m damn certain that the girls won’t, so let’s try trousers. When you come to yourself, you’re going to feel a lot better with less on show by way of skin.”

He had no idea what that meant, but he stood quietly while Master bought shirts and loose pants, and two or three pairs of shorts. The merchant packed them up and handed them over, and he reached to take them from Master, who looked startled for a moment, and then grinned.

“Yes, I suppose you should carry them. No need for us to be more conspicuous than we already are.”

He didn’t get that either, but he fell back to his place with the package under his arm.

“Now, supper. And breakfast, I suppose. I wish to God they had coffee here, or proper tea: that herbal stuff is foul.”

He followed again; Master bought bread and meats and cheeses, and some vegetables and fruit, and he juggled the parcels until one of the stalls gave them a cloth bag. That was easier.  

“All right. That will do; we can go home now.”

Home, it seemed, was an elegant house on a broad, tree-lined boulevard; Master led him straight to the front door, which he opened, and then turned and took the packages from him, setting them down on a table just inside.

“I, I really am sorry about this, but I can’t, I dare not do anything that might circumvent the local law. I don’t know if it’s tied into the hex or not – damn, you have no idea what I’m talking about, have you? You aren’t safe until I’ve taken you under my protection.”

He didn’t understand exactly what Master was saying, but he knew what had to be done, and the skin on his back crawled with the knowledge of it. Master was unclipping the leash and for the shortest imaginable moment, he thought of bolting, but when he looked at the man, his face was creased with worry, and although his lips were pressed angrily together, he wasn’t scary, the way he had been at Old Master’s house. He was twisting the leash around his hand, the metal end inside his palm and the loop hanging free.

“Put your hands on the door, please.”

Please. He said _please_ to a _slave._ What sort of man said _please_ to a _slave_?

He knew what had to be done: he shucked his kilt without waiting to be told, and leaned against the doorpost, head lowered and teeth gritted. This time, he _would_ keep still; he would show Master that he knew how to behave. He risked a glance sideways; Master looked sick.

He shut his eyes; he _so_ didn’t understand what was going on. The leather leash hissed in the air and snapped across his shoulder; the blow was so light that he jumped in shock, his skin twitching like an animal’s bothered by an insect. The second stroke, across his ass, smarted and tingled where it crossed the lines already there, but there was nothing behind it; the one on his thighs was the same. He bit back a yelp when the end of the leash curled around his calf, but it was more surprise than anything else.

“I hereby take you within my household.”

Wait, _what_? Was... was that it? He opened his eyes; Master was standing inside the door, untwisting the leash from his hand, and plainly waiting for him to come inside. He bent to pick up his kilt, and wrapped it around his waist; then he picked up the parcels again, and looked at Master for instruction. There was an awkward pause, which he didn’t really understand – hell, he didn’t understand _anything_ that was going on – before he thought that maybe he was supposed to come in, so he stepped cautiously forward, and Master smiled, so that was right.

“We’ll leave the groceries in the kitchen, and then...” Master stopped abruptly. Then? But this was the kitchen and things had to be put away. He watched carefully; he didn’t get how the household worked, there was no cook in the kitchen, no scullery boy, so perhaps that was to be his work? He would need to know where things went. He wondered if he should warn Master that he wasn’t a good cook, but... but Old Master had _told_ Master what he had been trained to do, he knew that, so he held his tongue.

“Along here.” It was a cool hallway, and Master opened a door, into a light, fresh bedroom. “I, I just want to look at...” and he made a vague, embarrassed gesture. “I, I suppose... Do you know me?”

Oh. This weird thing again. He knelt, and Master sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. Had kneeling been wrong, then?

“Do you know me?”

This time when the warm hand settled beneath his chin, he knew to keep looking up.

“You are the Master.”

Another sigh. “And who are you?”

He dared to touch the Master’s knee. “I am the Master’s slave.”

The Master sniffed. “Needs work. What’s your name? No, don’t give me a glib answer. Think about it. What is your name?”

He didn’t understand, but he tried to think. “Whatever Master wants to call me?” It came hesitantly; he was grasping that this wasn’t what Master wanted.

“What do you want to be called?”

Inspiration struck. “K71B, Master. I am K71B.” He touched his registration tag in evidence.

Master sat back. “Well, I suppose it’s progress. Individual, even if... All right: where I come from, Kay is a name. It’s not so common for men nowadays, but it’ll do. Now, let’s see what we can do about...” and he made the vague gesture again. “Lie down. I won’t be a moment.” He went out, and turned along the hallway.

Lie down? He looked at the bed; it was big, and when he touched it, it was springy, and the linens were smooth and fine. He turned them back; he would have liked to wash before the Master bedded him – he would have liked everything to be as the Master wished – but he had been given an order, so presumably this _was_ what the Master wished. He stripped off his kilt again, and pushed it, and his sandals, out of sight under the bed, and lay down, knees wide. He didn’t need to be afraid. Master was... Master _knew_ what he had and hadn't been trained to do. He heard Master’s step in the hall. He didn’t _need_ to be afraid.

“Oh, good lord.” He looked up; Master had stopped in the doorway. “Oh dear. I, I think I need to be a very great deal more precise in my instructions, don’t I, Kay? You need more by way of background information. My dear boy, I only want to look at your bruises. Can, can you turn over for me?”

He turned, bewildered, and jumped when Master touched his back. “Now this, this should help take some of the sting out. It might smart a bit going on, but it ought to help, I think.” It was something cold, with a sharp smell which almost made him think that he knew it: he had a sudden flash of a big book-lined room and... no, nothing. The ache in his back eased before he could remember. Master touched his ankle, and spread the stuff across the weals on his calves; it itched a little and he tried not to fidget. One hand moved to the back of his knee; he suddenly realised that it was to keep him from being startled, to tell him where Master was, as if Master didn’t have the right to touch him anywhere or any way he liked.

He did flinch from the touch on his thighs, though; he couldn’t help it. They really hurt. Master was very gentle, but even the lightest touch burned. He panted, and half pushed up.

“Breathe through it. Count down from ten.” The sting eased, and he heaved in a breath, and another. “Would you rather I left the rest alone? Is it too much?”

He twisted to stare, before it occurred to him that it was disrespectful. “Master may do...”

“No.” That was snapped. “No, Kay. It’s your choice. I won’t be displeased either way. If it eases the pain, I’ll go on. If it’s too much, I’ll stop. You choose.”

The burn had fallen away to a dull throb. “Go on, Master, please?”

The touch was hardly more than a tickle across the top of his thighs, but the effect was agonising. He panted again, whispered numbers aloud.

“That’s right. Nearly finished. Well done.”

He arched his back and bit the pillow as Master stroked the wet stuff over his ass, whimpering, and gasping; Master set his hand on the back of his waist and he concentrated on that touch as the burn died away, relaxing one muscle at a time, or so it felt, until he was limp with relief.

“Better?”   

He managed a feeble nod.

“Good. Now look, you just stay there until you’re recovered. Then I, I think you would be better in trousers – in pants – than in that... what have you done with the skirt thing? No, never mind. Look, here you are. Shorts, shirt, trousers. They should be loose enough that they’ll not trouble your bruises. Put them on when you feel better.”

And back to ‘Wait! What?’

He didn’t know what to do. Master was telling him to stay there, but he was also telling him to get dressed. He didn’t know what to _do_!

He should do as he was told. That was the rule. Stay where he was until he was recovered. How recovered? He shut his eyes, and trembled. Only no, that was stupid. Master was being kind. Master hadn't punished him for ignorance.

Master hadn't punished him for _anything._ So maybe, maybe if he _said_ he didn’t understand?

Wow, this was scary stuff. He lay thinking about it until he realised with a start that his back didn’t hurt _at all_ , and his legs just tingled some. So that must count as recovered. He should get up. And... did Master really mean him to put on _new_ clothes? _Owner_ clothes? Owner clothes were only worn by very senior members of the household, the slaves who were trusted _completely_ , and even they didn’t get _new_ clothes _._ That couldn't be right.

He would take the risk: he would tell Master he didn’t understand, and ask.

He got up, remade the bed carefully, and put on his shoes. The kilt he looked at doubtfully. Master didn’t like it. He sighed and laid it aside. Then he went to look for Master.


	12. Kay 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: home made pizza.

Master was in the kitchen, and when he went in, Master jumped, blinked twice, and looked anywhere but at him. “Oh, good lord. I thought I was doing better with the precision of the instructions. Clothes, Kay? Was I not clear?”

He fidgeted, anxiously, and Master came and took him gently by the elbow, pushing him back up the hall. “Come on. Maybe you need to have express approval garment by garment? Clothes, Kay. I want you to wear more clothes than, than you have been. Here, underwear.”

Mutely, he put on the shorts.

“Trousers. Shirt.”

It was what Master wanted. Didn’t make sense but it was what he wanted. He waited for another instruction; when it didn’t come, he dared to ask.

“What... how am I to serve the Master?”

Master made a face. “Well, for a start, you can give up that damned irritating third person address.”

He panicked. He had asked, and he hadn't the faintest idea what he had just been told to do. Master saw it, and laughed. “Kay, all I mean is that you say ‘you’ to me. Not ‘the Master’ or ‘the honoured guest’ or, or... Hell, it would be a lot easier if I were able to give you my name. Speak _to_ me, not about me.”

He gulped. O.K., he thought he understood. “Yes, Master. I am permitted to speak to you, as a trusted slave would.”

“As a...? Uh. Yes.”

“So what would the, what do you wish me to do now, Master?”

He got a brief smile of approval for that. “I don’t think I need you for half an hour or so. I have, there’s something I have to do tonight and I rather think you’d better be there for it, and tomorrow I, I want to go back to the library, there are some books I want to... and I suppose there’s a certain amount of housekeeping to be done.”

He grabbed at the only bit of that he understood. “Master has... You have slaves here to look after the house?”

“What? Oh! No, it’s just me. Well, and you now.”

He nodded, quailing. “I am to look after the house for Ma... for you?”

“I, I, I hadn't thought about it, but I suppose that if I’m researching, well, one of us...” Master ground to a halt and they stared at each other. He would risk being forward.

“If I am not needed for anything else, perhaps I could be allowed to see what work there is in the house?”

“Oh, oh, by all means, explore. We’ve got to keep it clean and tidy, gods and demons help us, or I’ll lose the deposit, but I think we can live in about a quarter of it and just close off the rest. Explore it all.”

“Is anywhere forbidden?”

Master actually gawked at him. “Don’t touch my books. That’s all.” He looked for a moment as if he would have said something else, and then he turned and went off down the hall. Again, didn’t make sense. Did _not_ make sense. If the Master was just setting up his household, he should have bought an experienced slave to run it, not a half-trained bed-boy.

The house was... well, it was nothing like as big as the one Old Master lived in, but Old Master had Mistress, and two Little Mistresses, and sixteen slaves and three paid servants. This house had Master and him, and for the two of them, it was vast. Master was in the kitchen (a _Master?_ In the _kitchen?_ ) and there was a dining room, and three big airy rooms with views over the countryside. In one of them, the one with the huge desk, there were books laid out; that was obviously the one Master was using.

He didn’t touch the books.

He went back the other way. There was the bedroom with his kilt still on the floor. He picked it up; he didn’t know what to do with it. Master didn’t like it, but he couldn’t throw it away: it wasn’t his. In the end, he hid it in a drawer. That bedroom had a door into a huge bathroom; there was a bath sunk into the floor, big enough to swim in, nearly. On the other side of the bath, another door opened into... This was the Master’s bedroom, obviously. Another of those big, big beds, with the cool linens, but books on the nightstand, and things left on the surfaces. He slid out through the other door, back into the hall.

There were other bedrooms, all of them big, and other bathrooms, but none of them the size of the Master’s. Behind an inconspicuous door he found stairs which took him up to more rooms, but they were obviously used for storage. He wondered if he might... and stamped on the idea. Master was kind but that didn’t give him leave to take liberties. Slaves like him didn’t sleep indoors.

He opened a door onto a paved space, still warm from the day’s sunshine. There was a pool, and chairs, and steps down into a garden. He wondered rather anxiously if he had to look after the garden; he didn’t know how. At the bottom of the steps, a path split, one leg running through the garden, and another curving around the house to...

Ah. The kennel yard. A control frame. A post. Twelve cages, back to back. Good quality cages too, properly roofed, out of the wind, with – he touched one to see – on demand water. An archway, and the stable yard. Stabling for six, a feed room, empty, and a tack room, with saddle trees but no gear. He hoped Master didn’t have riding beasts; he was still scared of them.

More storage and a room containing the boiler and water pumps. He turned back and wondered what else to do. Master hadn't called him to serve, so he should get out of the way.

He picked a cage; he hadn't seen straw anywhere, but perhaps Master would tell him later where he could find it. Somehow... he didn’t think Master would make him sleep on the hard metal cage floor. It was big; he could almost stand, could certainly lie stretched out. He sat inside, and waited.

Master was standing in the archway and he looked _furious_.

“What the _hell_ are you doing in that thing?”

Oh fuck, oh fuck... he scrambled out and across the yard to Master’s feet.

“Don’t _do_ that!” Master caught his arm and dragged him up; he gave a squeak of shock and Master dropped him; he vacillated between standing up – which was what Master seemed to want – and kneeling – which was what he had been trained to do.

“Oh... oh hell. Hell and _damnation!_ ”

Master turned away, rubbing his face, and then swung back. “Kay – Kay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I frightened you.”

He opened his mouth and to his utter and complete consternation and terror, the phrase that came out was “No shit, Sherlock!”

He didn’t even know what it _meant_ , but he knew it was bad, and training overcame the desire to please: he threw himself on the ground with his head at Master’s feet, and a panicked sob broke out of him.

When he dared to look up again, Master was looking down with an expression of total astonishment – and then, completely unexpectedly, he gave way to laughter. “Oh, thank God, you _are_ still in there. You’re a long way down, but you’re there.” He backed away and sat down on the low wall. “Let’s try again, shall we? You’re not living in one of those fucking _cages_. If you don’t like the room... if you don’t want to be next to me, choose another room. I thought it would be easiest if you were close and we only had to keep one bathroom clean, but it doesn’t matter.”

No, he was recognising all the words but they made no sense. In fact, now he came to think of it, no _part_ of the day had made sense and he was suddenly overwhelmed by it all. He bit back another sob, but he didn’t quite make it, and there was another, and another, and suddenly Master was on the ground beside him, an arm around his waist and a hand in the back of his hair, and he was being pulled against Master’s chest and held firmly.

He didn’t dare fight Master so he fought himself: forcing a degree of control over his breathing, biting his tongue to keep the sobs inside and allowing himself to be held, _not_ allowing himself to clutch at Master’s shirt. It took him a minute, but he dragged in another desperate breath, and searched for words to apologise.

“Better now? Blow your nose.”

A handkerchief was pushed into his hand; Master let go, and rather awkwardly rose, looking down at him. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? I’m so anxious to find you that I, I’m overloading you. Smaller steps. You’re not ready to make decisions. Listen, then: this is what I want. You’re going to live in the house, not out here. You’re going to do some work to keep the house the way it should be, and you’re going to accompany me when I go to work. I’ll tell you what I want you to do, you don’t have to guess. I, I know you don’t know. I won’t be angry if you ask. That room you were in before, that’s where you’re going to sleep.”

He processed that. It was _weird_ but if... “If that is what Master wants.”

Master raised one eyebrow. “And when you speak to me...”

“Oh... I may speak to Master... I may speak to you directly.”

A single sharp nod. “Good.” Master looked around the kennel yard with an expression of extreme distaste. “I don’t think there’s anything here we need. We don’t have to look after the grounds, just the house. Let’s go in.”

He followed, still bewildered, but reassured nonetheless. Inside, he looked around the kitchen; it was... what was that _smell?_ He was _so_ hungry but... he gave himself a mental shake.

Master was taking something from the big oven, and cutting it up. His stomach gurgled, and Master didn’t look round, but he saw the man grin. He focused on the thing on the baking tray.

He had never seen such a thing, not at Old Master’s house. He could see what it _was_ ; he had carried the big flatbread home from the market, and Master had sliced vegetables and some of the hard sausage and cheese on top, and then heated it.

“Want some?”

He did, but...

Master cocked his head thoughtfully. “If I take you to the dining room and tell you to sit down and eat, you’ll freak out again, I think. We’ll try... I know, it worked before.” He gave a rather twisted smile. “Come here, Kay.”

He went; Master sat down at the table. “Sit on the floor.”

He obeyed, but the bruises on his ass twinged, and Master saw it. “All right, kneel up, if that’s easier.” He picked up one of the slabs of bread, and tore it in half, popping one piece in his mouth.

He held the other one out, curled a little to keep the meat from falling. “Eat it.”

He half put out a hand for it, and then hesitated; he had seen this done by the Mistresses and Masters with their pampered pets – pretty boys and girls with jewelled collars and painted faces. Was he to be a pet? He hadn't been trained...

And Master _knew_ that, he scolded himself harshly, so if Master wanted him as a pet, he should just behave as much like a pet as he could and Master would tell him what else he had to do. He’d _seen_ this done.

He leaned forward, as gracefully as he could – not very, he suspected – and bit the end off the bread in Master’s hand.

It was wonderful. His eyes closed, and he thought he might have moaned. He looked hopefully at Master, whose expression was a little stunned.

“Well... well, not, not exactly what I was expecting, but yes, I, I can see that works.” The bread was offered again; it was just as good the second time. Hell, if this was what being a pet was like, he could _so_ do it. 

The Master’s words registered. “This is not what Ma... what you wanted?”

Master smiled and held out another piece of bread. “This will do very well, Kay. Very well indeed.”

He was mostly reassured, but he thought he ought to show what he _did_ know. He’d spent half the day telling Master what he didn’t, so he took the bread delicately, and ran his tongue over Master’s fingers.

Master squeaked and jumped, and when he looked up, Master was wide-eyed, but he smiled, rather oddly.

“You know, I don’t think anything in my career has prepared me for this.” He picked up and ate a piece of the bread himself; then he added in a lower voice, “And the disturbing thing is, I think I could learn to like it.”


	13. Kay 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: panic.

He didn’t know what Master had meant, but he was beginning to see that he didn’t have to care. They ate; Master gave him, he realised, more than half of the cooked bread, and fruit afterwards, and a hot herbal tea with honey in it. He liked that too, although Master made a face over it and muttered something about a decent cup of Assam. Then he had cleaned up in the kitchen, while the Master went into the big room with the desk, and presently he heard himself called.

Master was leaning on the desk with his head lowered; he looked tired, and in front of him was a... he didn’t know what. It was like the air had gone all shimmery in a big circle, and after a minute it cleared and there was a woman’s face peering through at them. She glanced at Master and opened her mouth, and Master jerked his head up and snapped ‘No names!”

The woman cocked her head, and then a huge smile crossed her face and she let out a high pitched squeal. “You’ve got him?”

Master held out an arm and somehow he knew he was supposed to approach. He sidled over, keeping his eyes on the woman in the circle, who squealed again, and clapped her hands. “You got him!”

“I got him,” confirmed Master. “So _no names_.”

Her face fell. “He doesn’t remember?”

Master shook his head. “It’s too soon. I don’t know when the last renewal was done. He doesn’t know me.” He looked speculatively at Kay. “Mind you, he’s known you longer... Ask him. He’s called Kay here.”

“Kay?” Her voice was soft, and appealing. “Do you know me?”

His eyes slid sideways to Master who smiled encouragingly. “No, Mistress.”

Her face fell; he ducked his head awkwardly. Master set a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Kay. Nobody will be angry.”

The woman’s face screwed up. “Why would anybody be angry?”

“Wi... You _know_ why he’s here. He’s been conditioned to please. If he can’t give you what you want, or if he can’t answer questions, then you’ll be angry, or I will, and that’s bad.”

“He thinks you’ll be _angry?_ ”

“Oh no,” he objected. “Master isn’t angry when I don’t know things. I’m to ask when I don’t know things.”

“Oh,” she said weakly. He needed to convince her.

“Master hasn’t beaten me even once, even when I was stupid or disobedient and I deserved it.”

Her mouth and eyes went completely round; Master laughed. “Come on, admit it; that’s an endorsement you never expected to hear. Specially not from that direction.”

“It’s not _funny_ ,” she snarled at him; he sobered at once.

“You’re right, my dear, it’s not, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Have... did they...”

“Yes. I have our standard first aid kit, and I’ve dealt with it.”

She glowered at him for a moment and then turned back to Kay.

“You really don’t know me? Or him?”

Another woman pushed her way into the circle, a blonde. “Hey, I thought you weren’t calling him until later? And whoa! Hey, he found you!”

She was looking at Kay with a huge grin on her face; both the darker woman and Master snapped “No names!” and her grin froze.

“Doesn’t know us?”

“Do you know her, Kay?” prompted Master. He shook his head miserably; it seemed that he was _supposed_ to know these people. Master patted his shoulder. “Never mind. It’ll come back.”

He fidgeted, wanting to be closer to Master, wanting to lean on his leg the way he had done when they were eating, but not daring in front of the Mistresses. Master was speaking again.

“I risked opening the rift myself; I, I think we were right about not letting you come. It was ferociously draining, much, much more than opening a comparable rift from your side would have been, but I wanted you to see that I had him.”

The dark woman was suddenly all business. “What do we have to do now?”

“Guess,” said Master, drily; she smiled at him affectionately.

“More research. To get him to remember.”

“I, I’m going back to the library here tomorrow; they have things I’ve never seen before.”

She laughed. “Careful, Gi... We don’t want to have to come and bail you on a charge of stealing books. Are you going to take... Kay... with you?”

Master frowned. “I think so. I, I’m looking for anything that might trigger a memory. He’s in there, I’m sure of it: he said something earlier which was purest... himself. If, if you can think of anything... you know him better than I do.” He added slyly, “At the moment, he’s full of pizza.”

The blonde Mistress laughed aloud. “They have pizza there?”

Master was smiling, but he shook his head. “I made it. Not quite from scratch, but close enough. He ate at least as much as he normally would.”

She shook her head. “That’s way clever. I wouldn’t have thought of that.” She tipped her head a little to one side. “So... how is he really?”

“In surprisingly good health. He’s lost some weight, but not so much that I think he’s been seriously underfed. He’s emotionally labile, which I think is overwork and general confusion as well as the hex. Cuts and bruises, no sign of anything more.”

“What’s he been doing?”

“Outdoor work, mostly. Farm work, fetch and carry, household stuff.”

Kay looked up; the Master hadn’t said that he had been a bed-boy, even if he hadn't been a very good one, and that now he was a pet. He didn’t know if he ought to say something, but Master looked at him and one eyebrow twitched, and he decided against it.

“Gi... Hey, do you need anything other than...” and the blonde shuddered, “research?”

Master shook his head. “I, I think you should go. I, I think I won’t make contact again, unless it’s to say we’re ready to come home. We’ll be here if, if you call us, but it’s too much risk, I think, for me to do it. I’m, I can feel the drain on my core magic.”

“And we have patrols to do and... are we mentioning what we do on those patrols?”

Master smiled. “Possibly not. Are, are they going well?”

The blonde grinned again. “Yeah, but I miss having you here telling me I’m too careless.”

“You are too careless,” Master grumbled affectionately. “Go on, go and patrol.”

“’Kay.” He jumped, but it seemed that wasn’t the Mistress addressing him, although she saw him and smiled. “Goodnight, Kay.”

“Goodnight, Mistress.”

Her smile went a bit odd at that, and he thought she pinched the other darker woman; she leaned in too, to say, “Night, Kay. Hey, we’ll see you again soon.”

“Goodnight, Mistress.”

The circle popped and Master gasped, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, good lord, that shouldn’t be such hard work.” 

He fidgeted from foot to foot. “I could, I could make you some tea?”

Master went still. “I am such a bloody idiot. _Idiot!_ Didn’t think to ask for a box of tea bags, did you, you great pillock?” He looked at Kay. “I, I, yes, please, would you do that? And put honey in it; it’s disgusting without. Well, it’s disgusting with, but it’s more disgusting without.”

He called again, before Kay had made it to the kitchen. “Kay? Make enough for both of us.”

He trembled as he heated the water. This was... he was a _pet_ , and a pet could expect treats.

When he came back with the tray, and with two – _two!_ – cups so fine as to be translucent, the Master had moved from the desk to a soft chair, and his eyes were closed. He wasn’t asleep, though; his left hand was slowly massaging the fingers of his right. The lines around his eyes were deep; Kay remembered thinking that they made him look kind, but now he thought that they made him look tired. He set the tray down quietly, and filled a cup with the pale green liquid, adding a spoonful of honey and stirring it. Master opened his eyes, and Kay dipped his head, as he had seen pets do when they served their Mistresses, and held the cup out.

“Thank you.”

It made him quiver every time Master said it. He watched, carefully, ready with the honey in case Master wanted more. No, that was obviously enough. He glanced doubtfully at the other cup.

“Yes, have some yourself.” The voice was weary, but infinitely patient and encouraging. He took his drink and settled at Master’s feet.

“You’re permitted to sit on the chair if you like.”

He looked at it, and bit his lip, and shook his head nervously. Master made an odd clucking sound. “Step too far?” A cushion thudded onto the floor beside him. “Compromise. Sit on that. Please?”

He would refuse the Master nothing when he said ‘please’ in that gentle voice.

They sat quietly for long enough that he was grateful for the cushion; his bruises were beginning to make themselves known again.

“Master?”

“Hmmm?”

“Is it permitted... Can I ask a question?”

“You not only can, you may.”

It echoed in his ears, not as if it had been said loudly, or, or far away, but around and around as if he had heard it lots of times. He shook his head, and looked up; the Master was watching him sharply.

“I say that often.” Master sounded almost as if... as if he ought to know that. He shook his head again.

“Master, the two Mistresses... they knew me.”

Master nodded.

“And you know me.”

Another slow inclination of the head.

“But... I don’t know you?”

“You have done. You will again. We’re going to find a way to make you remember who you were before.”

“Was... was I their slave before? Or yours?”

Master seemed disconcerted by that. “No. No. You weren’t a slave when we knew you.”

And that was like being kicked in the chest. He had _no_ _idea_ how to cope with that. “I, I, what?”

“You were as free as I am.”

“No!” He sounded like a child, refusing an instruction; Master was startled, he could tell.

“I, I, I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not free!”

“I assure you, you, you are!”

“But I... No! I don’t want to be!”

Master leaned forward and carefully set down his cup; then he recovered the other one from Kay’s hands. “Kay... You think that because, because at the moment, slavery is all you can remember. When you remember your other life...”

He writhed, and somehow the truth worked its way up for him to speak aloud. “I don’t know how to be... how to not be a slave.”

Master was very still for a moment. Then he nodded. “Yes, I, I see. I do see. But again, you don’t know how _now_. You did before and you will again.”

He couldn’t conceive of that. “What if I don’t?”

Master’s eyebrows went up slowly. “You will. You will remember. We’ll find out how to make you remember.”

“I don’t want to,” he whined; he knew he sounded ridiculous. Old Master would have beaten him long since for speaking like this. “I want... I want to be your pet.”

“Oh, good _lord_.”

And wasn’t it amazing the difference a day made. This time yesterday, the suggestion that he might have been the lowest scullion in this Master’s house would have filled him with joy. Tonight, the realisation that Master didn’t want him as a pet, and he could have howled with misery and disappointment.

“Master doesn’t want a pet.” He had to say it. Had to make it plain that he understood. That he wasn’t asking for anything more than Master was willing to let him have.

“Oh, _good lord_. Xa... Kay, look at me. Look at me. Listen. You know how to be free; you knew before and you will know again. I’m going to help you and, and the two Mistresses, they’ll help too. And until then, if it, if it makes you feel safe, you shall have whatever place in my house that you want. I was thinking ‘companion’ or ‘research assistant’, but if you want to be my pet, then you’re my pet. As long as it’s what you want.” His hands were gentle on Kay’s shoulders, and his gaze searched for understanding. “Do you know, I think the reason you feel so bad now – you do, don’t you? – is sheer plain exhaustion. Too many changes today, and you haven’t understood any of them. Do you want to go to bed? On your own. In the house,” he qualified hastily. “You are _not_ sleeping out there in the yard.”  

It was true, he suddenly realised. He was so tired that he felt stupid with it.

“Go on, trot off to bed. You know where the bathroom is.”

He actually jerked with surprise; Master had said that before, but he hadn't really absorbed it. The _bathroom?_ Using a Master’s bathroom, in the _house?_

Master gave a surprised huff. “I’m just not getting this, am I? I’m not at all foreseeing what’s going to set you off. Why is the bathroom so frightening?” His voice darkened ominously. “Did... did somebody do something bad... something unpleasant to you, in a bathroom?”

He shook his head, close to tears. Master sighed. “Come along. I think you’ve had about enough of today. To tell the truth, so have I. You... yes, you go and start the bath, I’ll lock the doors. I’ll be there in a minute.”

That made more sense. He could run the Master’s bath, prepare his bedroom. He knew how to do that. Turn back the bed. Switch on lights. Make it all look appealing. He scuttled away to set out towels and run water.

The bath startled him so much he nearly fell in: he hadn't taken in that something that size would take a week to fill unless the water was under pressure and liable to emerge from a dozen different places, with a roar like a waterfall. He was still staring at it when he heard Master’s step.

“I’m glad we’re not on a meter,” was all he said, but he glanced, first into his own room and then into... the other one. Kay thought he was going to speak, but instead he just smiled and went into the second room, pulling the drape across the tall window, and... turning down the bed. Huh?

“You did my room, but you forgot your own.”

Yeah, but... huh?

“Now, go on, go and have your bath.”

He stared. “That’s your bath, Master.”

“No, it’s yours. I’ll have mine in the morning.”

He did mean it. He meant it.

“Aaaand... another score for Gi... for me, because I’ve upset you again, and I don’t have the least idea why. Don’t you want a bath?”

He couldn’t answer. Master frowned. “Maybe I’m not going about this the right way. You’re really _not_ ready for decisions, for, for autonomy, are you? Let’s try differently. I’m _telling_ you that I want you to go and have a bath. You’re going to have a bath, and then you’re going to bed. That’s what I want you to do, understand?”

He managed a shaky nod, but Master pursed his lips. “Go on then.”

He went, but... he left the door open. He could hear Master moving about, and that helped. He was quick; he scrubbed himself thoroughly, and washed his hair, which was a hell of a lot easier in hot water than it was in cold, and then he rinsed out the bath – he knew he should have scrubbed that too, but he was juggling what he knew ought to be done with the orders Master had given him – and scampered back to Master, who had changed into sleep pants and was reading a book.

“And we have _really_ got to work on the nudity thing. It’s, it’s fine when there’s only me,” although it wasn’t, obviously it wasn’t, because Master wouldn’t look at him, “but it’s not going to work if, if the girls are looking in. Right. Put your shorts back on. We’ll, we’ll buy you more clothes tomorrow, we’ll just improvise tonight. And your hair is _wringing_.”

He quivered; Master saw. “Bring me a towel, Kay. Shorts on, and a towel. God, this is _difficult._ ” He grinned at Kay. “And that’s another ‘no shit, Sherlock’ remark, isn’t it?”

He didn’t really understand, but he smiled tentatively, and went to do as he was told. Master didn’t want him to be naked. Weird, but hey, Master’s house, Master’s rules. Shorts. Towel. Had Master changed his mind? Did he want a bath after all?

No. He wanted Kay to kneel at his feet, so that he could dry his pet’s hair, and then work a comb through it, picking out all the tangles from the three day old braid. He didn’t stop when it was smooth, either: he went on and on until Kay was limp and blissful from the petting, leaning on his knees. Then he touched one of the purple and blue marks on his pet’s shoulder. “Is this hurting again?”

When he thought about it, it was.

“Go and lie down and I’ll treat them so that you can sleep.”

He cast one wistful look at Master’s bed, and retreated to his own. _His_ bed. It was the size of three cages at Old Master’s. It was soft and comfortable and Master came with the cold wet stuff, which didn’t sting as much going on this time, but Master kept a hand on his back anyway, rubbing slowly across his waist. “Now, go to sleep. That’s all I want you to do. Go to sleep.”

Plain enough that even he could understand it, but he twisted a little nonetheless, to be able to see Master’s face.

Master smiled. “ _Good_ pet.”  


	14. Kay 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: no, I don't think anything bad happens in this chapter.

The next morning was awkward. He felt stupid – he’d been whining at Master and about what? Master had fed him, clothed him, looked after him, _bought_ him out of a bad place and brought him to a better one, and all he’d done was snivel that he didn’t understand what was going on and he didn’t know what to do.

He still didn’t know what to do, but he kept telling himself that he had to get over it. What had he got to complain about? He’d woken up in a warm soft bed, not because anybody was shouting at him, or because people were clanking food bowls and opening cages, but because he really _really_ needed... and that was another thing. He’d dared to get up and go to the bathroom. He’d told himself that he was _allowed_.

He _hadn't_ made the mistake of trying to wake Master again, but he hadn't needed to; he’d heard Master moving about. He’d had a brief panic about what to do next, and then he’d got a grip, and gone to the kitchen and started heating water, and looking in cupboards. Pet or not, he was Master’s slave and if there was nobody else to make Master’s breakfast then that must be his job. He didn’t remember much of what Master had eaten the other day, but he found an open packet of meal, which was a fairly obvious clue. He’d seen the cook make it; it wasn’t difficult.

He risked it, and was rewarded with a smile and a pat on his shoulder when Master appeared.

“How are we going to manage this?” It was mildly asked; he looked round.

“I don’t think I can feed you porridge by hand. Not without both of us needing baths again afterwards. So what... No, get a grip, man, asking what you want to do doesn’t end well. I need to _tell_ you, don’t I? This time, I want you to sit at the table.” He cocked his head at Kay, who gulped, and nodded, but Master hadn't finished. “I don’t think we need the dining room. We’ll eat in the kitchen at this table.”

Well, that wasn’t too frightening. House slaves did sometimes get to eat in the kitchen. But it wasn’t right that Master should eat there too. “I could serve Master in the dining room... and eat here if that is what Master orders.”

“Master does. But I’m eating here too, and what did we say yesterday about how you speak to me?”

Oh. Yeah. “I will serve you here, Master.”

He would have preferred to serve Master and then eat afterwards himself, but master said not, Master said he was to sit down and eat his porridge, please, because cold porridge was and always had been, revolting, and the ‘please’ did for him again. He sat. He dropped his spoon when Master addressed him, asking him if he wanted honey on his porridge; he nearly overturned the whole bowl when Master simply dolloped honey into it because he had gawped and not answered.

“Now,” said Master, politely looking away, “what’s on the list for today? More clothes for you, I think we agreed, and something to eat tonight. I want to go to the library, and you had better come with me. I must look in at the shop with the witch balls – I wish I could remember which one it was, but it was one of the ones along the Promenade – because there was a particularly good example, and I think Wi... that is, I think one of the Mistresses would appreciate it. Was there anything else?”

He looked blank. He had no idea. Master looked a little uncomfortable, and spooned more honey onto his own porridge. “I, I really do apologise, but I think you must wear the lead. Once, once the neighbours recognise that you live here, we could, could probably let that go, I’ve seen, I've seen people send their... their staff out on errands unaccompanied, but for the moment... How are your bruises this morning?”

He thought of how to answer that: first of all he thought to say that they didn’t hurt, because he’d had worse, and he should be working, and then he thought to say that they did, because... because Master seemed to want him to be truthful, and then he just stood up and shoved his pants down his thighs and showed Master because that seemed easier than either.

“Definitely need to work on the nudity thing,” murmured Master, but as if it was a... as if it was a _joke?_ “You, my lad, are going to be absolutely _mortified_ when we go home. I, I think I shall tell you now that when you do get your memory back, I shall conveniently have lost mine.”

That, he didn’t understand at all.

“Now, come and I’ll treat those bruises again. Listen, Kay: from now on, when they hurt and you need something done about them, you’re to come and tell me.”

“They... I... it’s not so bad, Master.”

Master looked steadily at him. “It wasn’t a suggestion, Kay. It’s an order. When your bruises hurt, I want to know.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Do you know, I think I’m getting tired of that. We’re going to try something new every day. Yesterday you learned to speak to me, and it wasn’t completely terrifying, was it?”

For a given value of ‘terrifying’, he supposed.

“Today you’re going to try to stop calling me ‘Master’, at least in private.”

No, that was back to terrifying. “What shall I call the Ma... what shall I call you instead?”

Another approving smile, which turned to a frown, but more bewilderment than irritation. “Well, now, that’s a question, isn’t it? I can’t give you my name, and ‘Ripper’ will cause more problems than it cures... I can’t see you managing it anyway; you’re still going to need more structure. Let’s go traditional. Can you manage just ‘sir’?”

He didn’t like it, but he could. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. All right, let me get the first aid kit, and then we’ll go out.”

It was the start of what fell into a remarkably comfortable routine. Breakfast every day in the kitchen, a slow wander through the town, looking into the shops, a visit to the library. Lunch from a street trader, eaten in the park with Kay, collared and leashed, at his Master’s feet, being fed by hand as a proper pet should be. Back to the library, and then home via the market, collecting something for dinner and something for breakfast. An evening in the house; Kay would make dinner while Master sat at the kitchen table with his books, advising and helping – well, telling him what to do, because Kay knew nothing about cooking, and afterwards Master would retreat to the big room with the desk, and Kay would tidy the kitchen, and do such cleaning in the house as was necessary. When he had finished, he would make tea for them both – Master had remembered to ask for it the next time he saw the Mistresses – and take it in, and help Master by finding the books he wanted, or bringing him his notepad, or looking up particular texts Master thought he remembered. After a week, he was comfortable sitting on a chair in Master’s presence; he still preferred sitting at his feet, shoulder against his knees, and Master smiled faintly and permitted it, occasionally stroking his hair, or petting the back of his neck.

After ten days more, he would sprawl on the sofa next to Master, and occasionally Master would read aloud from the books, and sometimes, Kay would lean against him, and Master’s hand would slide over Kay’s shoulder as he read or thought.

The Mistresses called up the wavering circle every few days; by now, Kay knew what they were looking for, and the four of them could discuss what texts they had reviewed, but they found nothing useful. The dark Mistress always ended up sighing and saying “It will just wear off, in the end, but it’s _way_ inconvenient...”

One night, though, she did have more for them. “Not good. Not serious, not really, but just so you know: when it does wear off, it’s gonna be like... like him going cold turkey. Shakes, nausea, headaches, flu-y symptoms.”

“Oh, just great,” muttered Master. She nodded.

“I know, but if I understand it – it’s from Collyer & Rembrandt, and they’re generally quite reliable, yeah? – it’s not usually serious but it can go on for quite a long time. And...”

The shimmering disk quivered and coughed. Master swore, abruptly; the disk flicked out of existence, and reformed.

“Gi... Librarian, are you there?”

“Yes. Did you lose it?”

“It went offline. I was afraid it might. I’ll try again tomorrow, but I think we’re going to be out of contact at least two weeks at your end, until the dimensions line up again. It’s the...”

“Crinto Aurealis effect, yes. We’ll, we’ll all just have to keep going as we have been. Nothing else new?”

She shook her head. “It’s all O.K. here. Bu... She’s patrolling, nothing out of the ordinary, we’re cool. Oh... it’s going again...”

It did, flashing twice and winking out.

They carried on; the librarian began to smile at Kay as well as at Master, particularly after the day that his assistant was absent. They had arrived at the desk to collect the day’s requests, and Kay had seen the pile of books left from the day before. He had dithered for a minute and then said tentatively, “If the Honoured Librarian wished, I could re-shelve these?”

The librarian had looked startled; Master, already deep in one of the new books, had glanced up from it and said distractedly, “He’s quite reliable, you know: use, use him if you...” and had snatched up a pen to make notes. The librarian, in turn, had nodded blankly, and Kay, after a morning’s shelving, found himself trusted to find and collect Master’s book requests.

Two days after _that_ , Master found something promising in the books. It was past the middle of the afternoon, at the sort of time they would normally have been thinking of going to the market; Master called Kay to him with a glance.

“I want to finish this translation today, but there’s, there’s a section I don’t quite... I don’t want to leave it now. But we need something to eat tonight, and milk, fruit...”

“Bread,” offered Kay, “and laundry soap.”

“Quite. Quite. So... if I give you some money, can you go to the market on your own? Come back here afterwards?”

He felt his jaw drop. Trusted slaves were sent to do the marketing, but only places their owners kept an account. It was very rare indeed for a slave to be viewed as faithful enough to be allowed to carry his master’s money and to use it unsupervised. He swallowed hard. “I am honoured by Master’s trust,” he said thickly.

“What? Oh! Well...” It wasn’t common for Master to be so disconcerted, either. “Um, that should cover it, and a bit over in case you see... if there’s anything else you remember that we need, or if, if you see something special at the bakery that you fancy...”

He nodded and fled, before his emotions could overcome him. Master _trusted_ him. Trusted him enough to allow him to go out alone, trusted him with money, trusted him to decide what they were going to eat, trusted him to pick out things they didn’t even need but might just _like_...

He shook himself, like a wet dog, and set off for the market. He was going to find something _really_ good for dinner.

It was the fifth time that he was sent alone that he screwed up. Royally.

He’d been warned and everything. Warned by the librarian, of all people.

“Mr... Ah...” – Master had caught the librarian the first time they had been to the library, and asked the man not to use his name in Kay’s hearing. Kay didn’t know what excuse he’d given – “if you’re going to send your boy to market, you might like to think of doing it early. It’s Review Day; the Militia will be coming through the town. The place will be terrifically busy, and if he gets caught on the wrong side of the bridge when the parade starts, he’ll be there until dark; they close off some of the roads. It’s not unusual, either, for it to end up in a brawl and a lot of people arrested.”

Master had cocked an eyebrow at Kay. “Hear that? Go when we’ve had lunch, and don’t buy anything that will stink out the library.” He turned away and Kay thought he said something amused about ‘garlic on the library pizza’ but he wasn’t sure.

It felt odd going so early. It was good in some ways: more choice, there was a type of bread he hadn't seen before so he bought some. In other ways he didn’t think he liked it as much: the market was busier, he felt that he was inconveniencing people when he couldn’t decide instantly what he wanted.

The mistake was... he was just curious. He wanted to see the Militia. People in the market were talking about Review Day and the different regiments, and how they all came into the town from different directions to meet in the main square. He saw the first regiment, and stopped at the kerb to watch, but almost immediately he lost his place to a woman who saw his slave tag and gestured at him imperiously to step back. He ended up pressed against a wall; people appeared from all directions at the first sound from the band, and he was by no means the only slave elbowed out of the crush.

After they passed – which took several minutes – the crowd was moving fairly steadily up the hill, and he hesitated for a moment and then followed, telling himself that Master hadn't said he wasn’t allowed to go. Hadn't actually said anything at all except that he was to go to market early. He wouldn’t stay to watch for long, he would go back to the library as soon as he had seen a second regiment arrive.

He came to himself with a jolt, what must have been a good hour later, suddenly realising that he had no very clear idea of where he was. He had come uphill, he knew; he turned and tried to make his way back down, but the main street was full of observers now, and it was almost impossible to pass, particularly since many of the freemen wouldn’t give way to an obvious slave. Eventually, he slipped into a side street which was less crowded, and began to cast down the hill as best he could, turning into smaller and smaller alleys, always being forced away from the main thoroughfares in order to go downwards.

Within fifteen minutes, he was hopelessly lost.

He was also, as he realised when he came across the first barrier, on the wrong side of the river.


	15. Kay 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: disciplinary spanking, sort of.

The little girl in the green tunic was crying even before her Master came for her; two minutes after he arrived, she was screaming as he held her by her hair, and lashed her bare back, the ripped tunic lying at her feet. Kay cowered at the back of the cell, refusing to watch, and he shook with fear and anger long after her sobs had died away along the corridor.

The green cloth lay on the floor like an accusation.

There was a man – a male something – of a kind he didn’t recognise, with vertically slitted pupils and a feathered crest, who was claimed by a man in the uniform of a kennel-master, and who exchanged sympathetic and apprehensive glances with Kay as he was led away. 

He heard Master’s calm tones outside before he saw him; by the time the guard showed Master inside, Kay was in the centre of the room on his knees, head to the floor.

“Yours, sir?”

“Yes.”

The door was unlocked; he didn’t dare look up, but Master’s hands clipped the leash to his collar, and Master’s voice said calmly, “Come.”

He got up, eyes still lowered, and followed Master to the front desk, where Master signed for him, showed his tag, proved his own identity, paid his fine, and exchanged courtesies with the desk sergeant.

He wondered where the phrase ‘desk sergeant’ came from; it seemed to be one he knew.

Outside, the skies were dark, but the buildings were lit up. There was music coming from the square, and the streets were still busy, but now the Masters and Mistresses were dressed for a festival. Only a few slaves were to be seen; they were all, a swift glance told him, pets, dressed, however revealingly, in silks and jewels, faces painted.

He, in torn cotton, his skin smudged with dirt, his braid coming undone, the black ribbon that usually held it in place long since lost, was a disgrace to his Master. He felt it, and the sideways amused smirks he had from one or two of the pets said it as clearly as a shout.

“Are you hurt?” They had turned into a quieter side street; Master didn’t look at him, but strode calmly on.

“No, Master.”

“You have a mark on your face; is it dirt, or a bruise?”

“Dirt, Master.”

“Can you walk home?”

He was so tired, and they had been marched all around the town; he’d been in the coffle for the best part of two hours, trailing up one street and down the next, adding another body to the chain every time they encountered a slave with no apparent owner and no good reason to be where it was. He had no idea where he was now, nor how far home was.

“Yes, Master.”

But Master was a long-legged man, and he walked fast, and Kay was tired and hungry and _scared_ and thoroughly ashamed of himself, and about as miserable as he could ever remember being. He tried, he honestly did, but the third time he stumbled and jerked the leash in Master’s hand, Master moved to the kerb and held up his hand, and a bearing-beast with a calèche moved up beside them. Master climbed inside and Kay followed; a sharp tug on his leash told him that he should kneel on the floor, but Master slid a hand under his hair at the back of his neck, and for a moment he was comforted by the touch, before his conscience told him that no, that couldn’t be what Master intended.

“Peringale Boulevard, please, the park end.”

The cab driver nodded, and glanced at Kay. “Had to collect him from the pound?”

Master jerked his chin, and rolled his eyes; the driver laughed. “Always a deal of those on Review Day. This time of night, half the world’s coming out to see the tattoo and the other half’s collecting its property and taking it home in disgrace.”

Master snorted. “Do I get the impression that a significant part of the funding for the police department is raised by fines on stray slaves on Review Day?”

“Pretty much, yes. Half of them seem to think that it’ll be a good day to make a break for it, that there’ll be too much going on for a bolting slave to be noticed. The other half are just stupid, stop to gawp at the uniforms, get themselves lost, picked up as strays.”

“I don’t think I was particularly intelligent myself,” observed Master, calmly. “I’m, I’m not from round here; I didn’t understand quite what a big deal Review Day was. I sent the boy out on an errand early in the afternoon and by the time I picked up that he hadn't come back, I couldn’t do anything about finding him. It was only an hour or so ago that the police reported that they had him. I’ll not make that mistake again.”

Oh God, neither would Kay, as long as Master didn’t sell him. And he hadn't even had a chance to confess the bad stuff yet. His breathing went jerky and Master noticed; Kay felt pinned by the gaze. He _so_ didn’t want to have this conversation in a cab with a cab driver listening, but he couldn't wait until they got home.

“Master... I lost the bag.”

“The...?”

“I had been to the market for Master. I’d bought what he wanted. But when they chained us, I couldn’t keep a grip on it, and in the pound, they took everything off us. Your money, Master...”

“I have the money. The desk sergeant gave it to me.”

He bit his tongue. He wanted to whimper that he’d picked a good dinner for the Master, and lost it, and he was sorry, but the cab man was listening and they were supposed to be keeping themselves out of the public view; even for a truly trusted pet, that would be way too forward and would make them conspicuous.

Master leaned forward. “Since I’ve spent my evening tracking down my property, is there somewhere on the way I can get a decent meal?”

The cab man nodded. “Restaurant or something to take home?”

“I’m not inclined to take the boy into a decent restaurant until we’ve had a conversation about his public behaviour,” said Master coldly, and this time Kay did whimper – and the cab man laughed.

“Gonna make it hot for him? I’ll go up the Greenway.”

The Greenway was lined with restaurants; Master expressed a preference for a particular cuisine, and the cab man pulled up outside a bright window. “This is the one with the best reviews, or so I’m told.” He cracked his whip, and a collared girl ran out with a menu. Master shook his head. “A selection, enough for two. Generous on quantities, nothing silicon based.” He put money in her hand, and she nodded and scuttled away, coming back within ten minutes. He waved away the change and they set off again.

Inside the house, Master went straight to the kitchen; Kay followed him, arms full of hot packages. As soon as he had set them down on the table, he folded to the floor again, the tiles cold under his knees. Master turned, and all but fell over him.

“Oh, for... _Are_ you hurt?”

He shook his head, miserably.

“Sure? Then go and shower: you’re filthy. I, I do understand that you were frightened; I didn’t realise just how busy everything would be in the town, but you’re home now. I’m sorry I had to snap in the cab, but, but it would have been expected. Go and get clean and we’ll eat.”

 _Obey_. Shower. Clean clothes. And back to Master, who had laid food out on the table. Back to his knees.

“Kay, _stop_ that. Come on, sit, eat something. There’s no harm done, unless there’s something you’re not telling me?”

He shook his head. It seemed to be all he was capable of.

“Then eat. You’ll feel better for it. I know I will.”

It was an order, and he did try. He ate some of it, and the rest he played with on his plate, eating a little more every time Master looked at him. And he did, he supposed, feel better afterwards, but he didn’t feel good. He wasn’t comfortable. It was all hanging over him, and he _wished_ Master would just get on with whatever he was going to do.

But it seemed Master was going to do what Master usually did: he was going back to his books, and leaving Kay to clean up in the kitchen.

He boxed up the uneaten food; once or twice before they had picked up what the Master called ‘takeaway’, although Kay was almost certain that wasn’t quite right, that wasn’t _quite_ the proper name for it. Master always made sure there was enough for them to have at least a snack the next day, although now that Kay thought about it, Master rarely ate much of the leftovers.

He cleaned in the kitchen, and then he went through to the bathroom, even though he had scrubbed everything the night before. He swept all the floors and washed the tiles, except in the room where Master was. He didn’t go in there.

Until Master called him. Then he crept in, and folded down to his knees.

“Come here. Kay, what’s all this about? You haven’t done this for a month. What happened to you while you were out to set this off again?”

He couldn’t speak; he shook.

“Talk to me.” Master’s voice was very quiet and gentle. “Tell me what happened. Somebody _has_ hurt you, haven’t they? Was it when they picked you up?” His hands were moving over Kay, first tipping his head up into the light, obviously looking for bruises, then pushing his cuffs up his arms, examining his wrists, which were a little scraped from the chain.

“Master, I’m not hurt.”

“Then tell me what’s wrong.”

All the command in the world was in Master’s voice. There was absolutely _no_ possibility of disobeying.

“Master... please... I know I did... I shouldn’t have, I know I shouldn’t, and, and I really knew it even then, but I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry and whatever punishment Master thinks...”

There was a long silence, and Master said cautiously, “Tell me _precisely_ what has happened to you since I sent you out from the library. In detail.”

The first part was straightforward. He had gone to the market. He had bought this and that. He had seen the Regiment. He had followed.

Once he began to confess, it was easier: the rest of the dismal tale followed. Master didn’t interrupt. In fact, at the end, he demanded a summary.

“Tell me all the things you did that were wrong.”

“I stopped to see the Regiment, without permission.”

Master nodded. “Did you think about that at the time?”

He had. “I thought... It was just past the market, I could see from the corner where the cheese stalls are. I told myself that Master would not have refused it.”

Master raised one eyebrow and nodded. “Probably true. So how bad was it? If you thought – rightly – that if you could have asked, I would have said yes? Not very bad, really. Go on.”

“I went with the crowd, because I wanted to see more.”

“Would I have permitted you to go?”

He shook his head, miserably.

“Because?”

“Because a slave alone has cause to be at the market, Master, but not cause to be going through the town to amuse himself.”

Master inclined his head slowly. “And therefore, you made yourself conspicuous. Which we are trying not to do.”

He looked at the floor between his knees.

“Go on.”

“I got lost, Master.”

“Was that your fault?”

He struggled. It was his fault that he hadn't been where he should be, but he had been _trying_ to get back.

He had lost the bag with the things he had so carefully picked out at the market. Was that his fault? Master pressed him: had he been careless? He had tried to keep it with him, he confessed, but it had been torn from his grasp. He had been picked up by the police who had been sweeping the side streets; Master had been obliged to come to collect him, and to pay a fine for him.

“That is merely the upshot of you being picked up as a stray; you were trying to get home. I don’t think you can be blamed for it. So in total, you stretched what you thought _would_ have been my permission, into something you knew quite well I would _not_ have permitted. All the rest simply came as a consequence.” He added quietly, “And there was an element of bad judgment on my part, in that I, I didn’t ask enough questions about what I was sending you into. It won’t happen again.”

He howled, and flung himself flat on the floor. “Don’t send me away, Master! Please don’t! Beat me, Master, I’ll keep still, I’ll behave, I’ll never do it again!”

“ _What?_ ”

He wrapped his fingers around Master’s ankle. “Master, anything,” he panted, “just don’t send me away!”

Master’s hands closed around his wrists, and pulled him up to his knees. “ _Stop_ that! What on earth are you...”

“Master, please! I know I’m a bad deal, I know Master thinks buying me was bad judgment but I can be obedient, I can... Please don’t sell me.”

“Be _quiet!_ ”

It was snapped, very loudly; he was silenced. Master stared at him. “I did not say,” he enunciated clearly, “that I thought my judgment was at fault in buying you. It wasn’t. You know that I intend to take you home, to your own home, as soon as I can. I have no intention of selling you. Ever.” He leaned back and rubbed one hand over his face, with an expression of desperation. “Oh, good _lord_. Hysteria and Stockholm Syndrome and shock and conditioning. What in hell’s name do I do _now?_ ”

They stared at each other for several minutes, faces mirroring bewilderment and anxiety, and then Master’s face changed to the expression he wore when he was concentrating very hard on his books.

“What’s the hysteria _for_?” he enquired, but it didn’t sound as if he expected an answer, more like he was working something out by himself. “You think I’m going to get rid of you, and you don’t believe me when I say I’m not.”

He ducked his head; Master put a hard hand under his chin and forced it up again. “You don’t, do you? I say I’m keeping you and you don’t really believe me.”

He had to answer. “I’m... I’m a bad slave. I’m a bad pet. Master deserves a better pet.” Master didn’t _want_ to have a pet at all, he understood that.

“What happens to a bad pet?”

Well, _duh_. “A bad pet is sold.” His voice quivered on the scary word.

“Always?”

“If it isn’t _very_ bad, it’s punished. _Please_ , Master, whip me, don’t sell me!”

That look of extreme concentration again. “I can say all I like that I’m not selling you, and you just don’t believe me, do you?” and suddenly Master was decisive. “Stand up. Take those trousers off. And your shorts as well.”

He was going to take his shirt off too, but Master caught his wrist before he could start on the buttons. “Now, lie across my legs. Hands on the floor. Further forward.”

He slid, until his palms were resting on the cool tiles. It left his ass raised over Master’s lap, legs trailing, shirt slipping up his back and gathering under his arms. Somehow that was... he felt silly. He actually thought he would have felt less silly naked, but rumpled cloth around his chest and his ass bare made him feel even more vulnerable than he had before.

“I don’t whip my pets,” said the warm voice above him. “This is how I would shame a naughty child. It will do for a thoughtless pet.”

He cringed. There was something about ‘thoughtless’ that was almost worse than ‘bad’. The smack made him jump but... was that all? Master’s bare hand on his bare ass? It didn’t even sting as much as the leash had done when Master had taken him into the house.

It went on a hell of a lot longer though. Master, in his own way, was as thorough as the kennel-master had ever been. Four steady smacks down Kay’s left cheek, two on his left thigh. Two on his right thigh and four up his right cheek.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

By the third circuit, he was wriggling a little with every blow.

By the fourth he was squirming hard. Master threw his right arm across Kay’s waist to keep him still, and began a fifth rotation. This was harder to submit to even than the switch, although Kay didn’t know why. The bite of the switch hurt much, much more, but this, this was cumulative, and shameful, and oh God, _so_ well-deserved. He panted, and yelped, and finally begged, a helpless babble of pleas and promises to be good.

Master stopped, mid-cycle, with his first sob, hand resting on his scorched skin, both of them breathing hard; he felt... for a moment he thought that Master had rubbed, just once, comfortingly, but that couldn’t be right.

“Up.” He struggled to his feet, head hanging, biting back further sobs. Master’s hand went to the back of his neck. “Over here.”

He stumbled forward obediently, eyes swimming, finding himself face to the wall.

“Stay there until I tell you to move. No rubbing.”

He snatched his palms away from where they had been comforting his blazing ass. He would never have believed that a man’s _hand_ could hurt so much. 

But... it didn’t last. The pain, which he had thought would persist, eased almost at once, leaving only heat. It wasn’t pleasant: his skin felt like he had a bad sunburn, and everything throbbed, but it was bearable. He’d been punished, no doubt about it, but not cruelly so.

He felt stupid, though, facing a plain white wall, legs bare, although his shirt, thank God, was long enough to hide his ass. He could hear Master, if he concentrated: tiny sounds, a page turning, the scratch of pen on paper. Twice, Master got up and went to retrieve a book and he cringed: that was _his_ job! But he had been told to stand, and he stood. His breathing steadied; he stopped feeling the thump of his pulse in his smarting ass, which cooled a little.

He became aware instead of a different sort of heat, of a small, warm feeling inside. Master would keep him. Master was kind: he wouldn't punish a pet and _then_ sell him. He sighed, and leaned his forehead against the wall. He wasn’t going to be sold. He was a bad pet, but he’d try to be better.

He heard Master get up, and felt a tap on his shoulder. “Put your clothes on, and go and wash your face.” Master was gone by the time he turned, but he wriggled into his shorts and pants, which made his skin itch, and went obediently to the bathroom. He risked taking a moment to inspect his hind end: it was gloriously red, and in one or two places, there were obvious finger marks, but nothing to the stripes he had been willing to endure. He washed his face in cold water, which helped, and pulled his braid to pieces and remade it. He couldn’t tie it; he would have to ask Master to get him another band for it.

He didn’t feel inclined to ask Master for _anything_ just at present. There was plenty he wanted but nothing he would ask for.

He didn’t know what to do when he went back along the hall; Master was in the kitchen and he thought from the noises that he was making tea, which made his mouth tremble again – _that_ was his job too! But he swallowed and took a grip. He was in disgrace. Serving Master in those little things, those intimate things – because they _were_ intimate, he suddenly realised, intimate in a way that the sex he had offered would never have been – was a privilege, and if his privileges had been revoked it was no more than he deserved. Master wasn’t selling him and he would be good and earn his privileges back. How could he show that he was properly repentant?

He didn’t go to the kitchen; he went back to the spot facing the wall. Master wasn’t just making tea, he was doing something else as well, Kay could hear him.

He came into the room; Kay heard the tray go down on the little table.

“Come here.”

He turned and went instantly, eyes correctly lowered; Master pointed at a spot on the floor and Kay knelt.

“Put your hands behind your back and keep them there.”

He did.

“You didn’t eat your dinner.”

He was startled enough to look up: Master had...

Master had reheated the leftovers and was now rolling a piece of meat in some of the bread, dipping it in the sauce and holding it out to him. His hands were behind his back; he had no choice, not that he ever did but... it wasn’t... he got it. It wasn’t that Master wasn’t giving him a choice: it was that Master was _showing_ him that he was still Master’s pet.

He opened his mouth happily. That was his favourite sauce, whatever it was. He didn’t think he’d ever had it before, but it was definitely his favourite, effective immediately, and there were two teacups on the tray.

By the time he’d eaten most of the leftovers and drunk his tea – and that had been weird, because Master wouldn’t let him take the cup, he still had to have his hands behind his back, Master had held the cup for him – he had begun to realise how tired he was. He wasn’t altogether comfortable sitting back on his heels, either, but he wasn’t dumb enough to say anything about it.

“Take the tray back to the kitchen,” Master commanded; that was another of his jobs, and he was glad to have it. He washed up the plates and cups, put everything away, and hurried back. Master had his books out again and didn’t look up; he just patted the space beside him.

Kay hesitated. He wanted to sit there, he did, but...

Master still didn’t look up. “I sincerely hope you aren’t intending to add disobedience to thoughtlessness.”

He _so_ wasn’t. He was on that couch beside Master, who reached for his braid and gave it a tug to bring him down. He squirmed happily until he got his cheek against Master’s thigh.

“I think I shall be sorry when you cut your hair.”

Huh? He looked up, puzzled. “My hair is Master’s to cut or not.”

Master frowned. “Do you speak to me that way?”

Even the rebukes loosened the tension inside him. “No, sir. I speak to you directly. But... you say if my hair gets cut.”

“Once you go home, I don’t. I expect you’ll want to cut it: you’ve never had hair this long that I can remember.”

He squirmed again. “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

Master smiled rather sadly. “You will. You’ll do what you please with it.”

He thought not. He would do what pleased Master, even after they went home. And that would please him too, because he loved the way Master worked his fingers into his hair, and petted his head.

Yeah, like that.


	16. Kay 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: nothing really, except hints of angst to come.

The librarian didn’t say anything when they walked in the next morning, but it was one of those really loud ‘I’M NOT SAYING A WORD’ things, and it made him blush. He still felt he’d been an idiot, but Master had been his usual calm self at breakfast, and hadn't raised the subject of bad pets, or... or anything else uncomfortable.

And talking about uncomfortable, he’d twisted to look at his own rear view that morning. Almost nothing. Couple of blotches, couple of places with tiny blue bruises, nothing he could feel when he gave a cautious prod. Nothing that hurt when he sat down on the library chair and began to mark up Master’s list according to where he had to go and look. He half wondered if the librarian would go back to fetching everything himself, rather than allowing Kay to do it, but when he had to ask where one particular class was, the man showed him, without comment.

He was glad to be busy, though; Master was tearing through books way faster than he had done before, and Kay was fully occupied trotting around the library with a fetch list, and then putting half of them back, and then getting half of _those_ out again. It was noon before he had time to do more than turn round on himself, and Master was stretching, and getting up, and reaching for his leash. He was there, smartly, without waiting to be called; Master picked up some sort of spiced meat in flatbreads for them to have in the park, and he ate his share from Master’s hand without any of his usual trying to duck the salad.

Even on the short walk back from the park, he could see that the town was way busier than usual; there were Militiamen on every corner, stopping people and handing out leaflets of some sort.

He shivered, and walked a little closer to Master.

He was enormously surprised when Master looked up at the clock in the middle of the afternoon and said quietly, “You had better go to the market if we’re to have bread for the morning.” Surprised, and kinda embarrassed, because he couldn’t think of any way to say _any_ of the things that came to mind. Things like ‘I’m scared to go on my own’ and ‘I didn’t think you would trust me to go’ and... so he said the one that seemed to have the least attached to it.

“Master will permit me to buy a hair tie?”

“What? Oh! Yes, good idea. And milk. That was the last of the milk this morning.”

He still didn’t want to go, not without Master, but Master was looking back at his book so... so he just went.

When he came back, Master was still struggling with the same book, but he looked up and smiled distractedly, and then with a little less distraction and a small frown.

“There’s something... You’re not buttoned up right.”

He looked down. It was true: he unfastened and refastened his shirt. “It was the Militiaman, Master.”

“The...?”

 “There was a patrol, Master, just before the market. They were asking for volunteers, and checking slave tags against a list. They wanted to see mine.”

Now he had Master’s undivided attention. “What for?”

“They said they were looking for runaways, Master.”

“The _Militia?_ Why would they be involved with runaways?”

The librarian overheard and looked over. “They always do it. They’re always looking to get their numbers up, and an easy way to do it is to draft any runaway slaves. If I were you, I wouldn't send your boy out alone until they’re gone.”

Master raised an enquiring eyebrow. “He’s tagged, and licensed to me.”

The librarian made a face. “Tags are easily enough removed; if a captain of Militia says he was picked up as a runaway, nobody’s going to take his word for it that he’s not, and forgive me, but you’re a foreigner. The chances are, you’ll not be able to track him down before you go home.”

Master looked uncertain. “My understanding was that he could be traced... well, through the dimensions.”

The librarian nodded. “If you know how. If you’re willing to spend the time. If you’re willing to spend the _money_. On a pet? Or an untrained houseboy? A stable lad? A farm worker? A lot of owners claim on the insurance and leave it at that. And even if you can trace him, they’ve _got_ him, and if they’ve had him more than a rotation, they can keep him, they just have to pay you market insurance value, which isn’t much. If he runs, they _will_ track him down through the dimensions, but they’ll kill him for desertion when they catch him. Court martial and public execution before the ranks.”

“ _Pour encourager les autres,_ I see, yes. And the hex won’t show... no, of course not, the hex only shows that he’s property, not whose property he is. Armies have always tended to have a rather... elastic attitude to ownership of the things they need.”

The librarian nodded. “And it’s easier to pick up stray slaves than to try to find volunteers, or...”

Master smiled. “Oh, let me guess... aged colonels writing in green ink to the press, suggesting the return of National Service?”

The librarian sniggered. “Like that on your world too, is it? Anyway, he’s young, he’s healthy, and if I were you I would keep him leashed and visibly collared in public. Officially, what’s going on this week is a recruiting drive. Unofficially, you might call it a press gang. You don’t live here; you don’t have a representative in the Gerousia; you’re a foreigner. I’m not saying the police wouldn’t _help_ if he went missing...”

Master nodded, thoughtfully. “But their help is likely to be limited. I’ll keep him by me, I think. It would be a nuisance to have to start the experiment again. It was hard enough finding him: there’s a prejudice against slavery where I come from, which is why I ended up here. Export trade only, you know?”

And that was the end of his unaccompanied trips to the market, not that he was altogether sorry.

Four or five days later, the librarian caught Master’s eye on their way in, and pushed a newspaper across the desk at him.

“Keep him close,” he said quietly. “It’s moving on from the press gang. It’ll go to a vote next week, and the general opinion seems to be that conscription’s where we’re going.”

Master went very still. “Won’t it matter,” he enquired cautiously, “that he’s human? Not Coblan?”

The librarian shook his head. “No, because he’s not free. Every man or woman in the age range will be subject to the draft; if you’re called, you can send someone in your place. So if you have the money, you can find a volunteer; that happened a lot in the Diamese war, just after I was born. One of my aunts took the place of a minor royal; he paid what was to us a fabulous sum for her. She came through the war and retired to a farm in Canelga on the proceeds. If you can’t find a willing volunteer, you can trade your way out. Three slaves of fighting age to one Coblan conscript was how it went in the Diamese war, and there were a lot of complaints that the ownership documents weren’t always as genuine as they might have been.”

Master nodded, but Kay thought he looked concerned. Uneasy. “Is war likely?”

The librarian, who suddenly looked old and tired, nodded. “Under this Doxe? More or less inevitable. She was a soldier herself and she’s been pushing the expansionist line for a long time.” He looked away for a moment. “I have a son and a daughter, both draft age.”    

Master seemed to have nothing to say.

He went nowhere unleashed after that, and Master became more and more short tempered over the next few days. Every sound in the house had him looking up at where the Mistresses’ disk habitually appeared, and the research was beginning to branch away from retrieving Kay’s memories and into how to make contact across unlined-up dimensions.

There was another line of enquiry too, but Kay didn’t know what it was. Master was pushing more of the work his way, telling him to leave the cleaning and to find this or that book, chase down this or that reference. He was working longer hours himself, but he wasn’t discussing what he was doing with Kay any more. At first, Kay thought it was something he’d done, but he was still encouraged to Master’s side, still had his hair stroked when he was tired, he was still fed from Master’s plate. He was still Master’s pet.

The only time that fell apart was when he couldn’t bear Master’s strained look any longer and he offered – he _knew_ even as he opened his mouth that it was a bad idea – to blow Master, or get him off some other way. Master didn’t... he just refused, courteously, and went on with what he was doing, but there was distance between them all evening, until Kay went uninvited to sit not beside him, but at his feet, cheek daringly laid against his knee.

Then Master rubbed his neck, and said, more sadly than Kay understood, that he was a good pet.

He wasn’t, though, or not always. Since Master had... since Review Day, he’d really struggled with not calling Master ‘Master’. He didn’t know why. He’d been fairly good with it before, he’d remembered that it was ‘Master’ in public, because that was what a slave did – and even being allowed to skip the ‘damned irritating third party address’ was a freedom and showed that he was a pet, not a house slave – but that at home it was ‘sir’. After Review Day he just couldn’t do it. He tried, but ‘Master’ came easily to his tongue and ‘sir’ didn’t, and Master corrected him once or twice, and then just flickered an eyebrow at him and let it drop.

He woke three times that night at unexpected noises from the study; once, he thought it was Master calling, but when he went through, Master said shortly that he had been trying to reach the Mistresses, and that Kay should go back to bed. Once, he thought Master dropped a book; the noise echoed, and he heard Master swear. The last time, he half roused to hear Master in the bathroom, presumably on his way to bed; beyond his curtain, the sky was already paling to dawn.

For all that, Master was up before him, making tea, staring through the window across the unused pool. They breakfasted together, and they were just about to go out as usual when they both heard the shouting from outside. Kay went to the window to look; Master followed him, and took an audible breath at the squad of Militiamen marching up the boulevard, with the ones on the outside pushing slips of paper into the hands of passers-by, and dropping them on doorsteps. Kay went to retrieve theirs; Master took it from him hastily, and his mouth tightened into a straight line as he read it and pushed it into his pocket.

“I, I think I want you to stay at home today.”

He was surprised. “Why?” Then he flushed, because it was not for him to ask. Master had only to express a wish and his duty was to obey.

“Because that was notification that the Militia is indeed looking for volunteers and I don’t want you to end up volunteered without my knowledge. Stay here. You, you can finish the notes you were making last night, and, and...”

He shrugged. “There’s laundry, Master, and the oven.”

Master made a face. “I suppose so. But you stay indoors, Kay, is that understood? Not even the garden. Indoors. I’m sorry. You are _not_ to go outside, and you are _not_ to open the door. No matter who comes to the house and what they want, no matter what message they want to leave, you do _not_ open the door.”

He nodded. It would be dull, but it was what Master wanted.

Oddly, Master stopped on his way out. He had locked all the doors, and Kay had seen that he stood for a long time at the front; then he walked around to the garden door, and from the study window, Kay saw him moving his hands oddly through the air, and his lips were moving. The word ‘wards’ came to mind, he wasn’t certain how or why, and when Master finished, he actually staggered to the wall, where he leaned for a minute, and Kay could see that his chest was heaving and his eyes were shut. Whatever he had just done, it had been an effort.

He came home in the middle of the afternoon, much earlier than usual, weighed down with packages and old, heavy books; he looked worn and stressed. Kay saw him approach the door, and make the wide gesture with his hands again, and there was an odd... an odd sensation, not a sound but a _feeling_ of something breaking. The door opened, and Master came in, but he dropped the packages, grabbed at Kay and nearly brought them both to the floor.

Whatever this was, it was scary. He got himself under Master’s arm with an arm around his waist. “Come and lie down, Master, you’re not well.”

And how scary was it that Master did as he was told? Kay got him to his bed, and he more or less collapsed onto it, eyes shut.

“Go and close the door. Dear heaven, they weren’t lying when they said earth magic was incompatible with whatever they have here, were they?”

He fled to shut the door, picked up Master’s packages, and put them on the table, and moved the two big books to the study. Then he scuttled back, looked in on Master, who still had his eyes shut, and shot off to make tea. If he’d learned nothing else since Master bought him, he had learned about tea.

It took two strong cups to get Master back to the vertical, and a third to get him to the study, where he instantly fell back into his research, looking more worn and stressed than Kay had yet seen. After a while, all that occurred to Kay as useful was to go and start dinner, which wasn’t going to be anything particularly interesting, because apparently the places Master had been today didn’t include the market. Or at least not the bits of the market that sold food. He appeared to have bought... a small bottle of something clear, a pack of tiny paintbrushes, and bits of a first aid kit.

The not interestingness of dinner was apparently not a problem, because Master came to the table for ten minutes tops, bolted down what Kay put in front of him, and rushed back to his books. When Kay, after cleaning up in the kitchen, went after him, he was given a list of references to chase down by an obviously distracted Master. He found them all, but none of them seemed to be what Master wanted; he looked more and more stressed with each discovery. Eventually he sighed, and pushed the last book away, his head dipping and his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Shall I make tea, sir?”

“What? Oh... Oh, yes. Yes, please do.”

He filled the kettle and came back. “Shall I put some of these away?” He couldn’t bear to see Master so exhausted, so worried.

“Put them all away,” said Master harshly. “There’s nothing here. There’s...” He looked around at the wreckage of books and notes, and his mouth worked for a moment, but then he looked at Kay and smiled, rather unconvincingly. “Let’s have an evening off. I know what I can do tomorrow, but... sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”

He had no idea what that meant, but he put the books away while the tea brewed, and then Master sat heavily on the couch and held out a hand to him. “I, I don’t suppose I’ll ever... Just once, just once I’d like... Oh, shut up, you silly old fool. Come and sit with me, Kay.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. He had no idea what was worrying Master but he didn’t like it, not even a little bit. He wanted to curl up beside Master while they both drank their tea, and maybe Master would pet him a little, and it could be good for both of them.

Master petted him a lot. Stroked his neck when he leaned over. Unfastened his braid and finger combed his hair for a long time. Sat quietly, his thumb just running over and over the hollow under Kay’s ear, until Kay was almost asleep. Then Master sent him off to bed, gave him a sleepy smile, and wished him goodnight, and something, something was _so_ not right that Kay hesitated in the doorway, and eventually just asked for the thing he’d wanted for weeks.

“Master... can I sleep with you?”

Only Master’s expression went all sideways, and he wouldn’t meet Kay’s eye. He wasn’t cross, though.

“Not tonight. If, if you still want to tomorrow, then...”

He almost danced his way to bed. Why not tonight? counted as nothing in the light of yes, tomorrow. Definitely yes, tomorrow.


	17. Kay 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: this is the chapter with the branding. It's not in great detail but it's there.

And then it all fell apart. Like, totally. There wasn’t a lot in the house by way of food, and Master, who still looked like shit, frankly, rubbed his face and said they would go out for breakfast, which he, like, never did. Lunch, yes. Dinner, yes. Breakfast, no. But this time, they did: there was a place they had passed most mornings and this time they went in, and Master ordered breakfast for both of them, and somehow, Kay ended up eating almost all of it. Master just drank two cups of spin, which he said wasn’t a patch on coffee, whatever that was, and played with a bread roll, but he broke up Kay’s roll and fed it to him, with lots of the sweet fruit paste on it. Then he fed Kay the pastry with nuts on it, and when he saw how much Kay liked it, he gave him his own one as well. The woman at the next table had a pet with her too, and her pet was being given a share of a roll with cheese and herbs in it, which smelled really good, and Master saw him taking peeks at it, and ordered one of those and they shared it. He was glad that Master had actually eaten some if it: he loved that Master fed him, but Master hadn't actually eaten much of dinner and hadn't eaten that much of breakfast either and it wasn’t good for him to skip meals.

They didn’t go to the library. That was weird. They went to the market and early in the day it wasn’t like it was after lunch; there were different things and different stalls, and Master wanted to get something for dinner, but he was really fussy the way he wasn’t usually, and he turned down all of Kay’s suggestions where before he had smiled and said ‘oh, why not, if that’s what you fancy’ and the stall owners had teased him about being way too indulgent with his pet. Kay went quiet after a while, because he wasn’t sure what was going on, and Master picked that up, and smiled wearily at him, and said, “I want to make something easily digestible and... soup, I think,” and he bought a load of weird vegetables, and a piece of meat that actually looked totally horrible, all glutinous.

Then they went home, and he helped Master chop up far more vegetables than anybody in their right mind would eat, and the horrible looking meat went in the oven in a big pot of water, very low, and Master had another shot at his books, and came out in the middle of the afternoon looking even worse than he had before.

And that was when it really, _really_ , fell apart.

Master called him in, and made him sit, not where he liked being, by Master’s side, but in the other chair.

“Kay... I’m really... I don’t... There’s something I’m going to have to do, and... Hell. _Hell_. You heard all that the other day about the probability of war, didn’t you? And the draft, and the Militia?”

He nodded. He didn’t see how it affected them, though.

“It’s getting worse. Every time we go out, there’s more being spoken about it. I, I’ve noticed over the past week or so that I’m just about the only non-Coblan left here, and...”

He rubbed his face. “The bloody dimensions _ought_ to be lined up now, but I haven’t heard from Wil... from the Mistresses in weeks. I can’t get through to them. Eventually I will, or they will, but we can’t afford to wait. I’ve been listening to the gossip, and I think there’s a real risk that if war is declared, I’ll be interned as an alien.” He made an odd amused sound. “All sorts of alien. And if that happens, I’ll be safe enough but I can’t take you with me.”

He panicked. He didn’t say anything, but his mind went into freefall.

“I need, I need to make sure that you’re safe, because if I’m, if I’m not... You’ll be drafted, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. I won’t, I’m too old, I’m an alien, all the rest, but the plain fact is that you are not free and you’ll end up in the Militia, and we won’t be able to find you again.”

The words were washing over him; he tried to take a grip and listen properly, but his mind had gone all slippery and slow. Master went on talking, explaining something about having found a way of proving ownership, of it never being possible to overrule ownership if... if something, only he’d missed that part because he’d been thinking about being separated from Master, about Master going to prison as an alien and him having to go into the Militia. He blinked, and came back to himself.

“I, I think I have to do it. I’m not... I, I, normally I wouldn’t do anything like that without, without... Normally I wouldn’t do anything like that _at all_ , ever. I don’t want to do it now. Ideally I’d like to, to be able to think that you, that I had your, your consent, your permission but I honestly don’t think you’re in a position to give it to me. You’ve been conditioned so much that... I daren’t not do this, I absolutely dare not, and I know you... I know if I ask you for permission, you’ll say yes, because you don’t know how to say anything else. And I really, I don’t want to do it, but it’s not just that I can’t think of anything else, it’s that there _isn’t_ anything else, not if the girls can’t get through to us. I don’t dare wait. So, so I’m sorry, I honestly am, but this is all there is left and I know, I know it’s...”

He stopped and swallowed hard, and said, abruptly, “I’ll make it as easy as I can, but it’s going to hurt a lot and there’s very little I can do about that. Afterwards... even if they take me away, the girls should be able to find you, because you’ll have traceable ownership.”

He had to say something. “I belong to you.”

Master shook his head. “If... when we go home, you don’t. You won’t want to. And... and it’s not safe for you to belong to me here either.”

He flung himself onto the floor at Master’s feet, panicking, begging, words pouring out of him: he _would_ be good, he would be the best pet ever, he would be Master’s houseboy if Master didn’t want a pet, he wouldn’t ask for anything _ever_ , if Master would just keep him...

“Xa... Kay! Kay, stop that. Please, sweetheart, stop. Stop. You _are_ good. Never doubt it, you’ve been good all the time you’ve been here with me. I couldn’t ask for a better pet, honestly. But a pet isn’t what you really are, and even if... I need to know that you’re safe, and you can’t be safe while you belong to me, not if I, if I’m likely to be arrested. I want you to be safe.”

Master wanted. Master wanted and that was all there was to be said. He wriggled a little closer and touched his cheek to Master’s knee. “Whatever Master wants.”

Master crouched and set one hand very gently to his face. “That’s my good boy. Come on, it won’t be any better for waiting.”

He got up. His throat was tight; for a moment he thought he was going to cry but... he couldn’t even do that. He was scared, as scared as... more scared than he had been any time since before Master took him. He wasn’t going to belong to Master any more. Master... if Master wasn’t going to be Master, what would Kay call him? He’d never heard his name.

In Kay’s head, he thought stubbornly, he would go on being Master.

When they reached the front door, he suddenly realised what this meant.

“Strip, please.”

And always with the English politeness, of course, even when it was an order like that. He stripped; Master lifted the leash and wrapped it once more around his hand, the metal end tucked into his palm. And always with the concern for everybody else’s safety, too.

“Hands on the door, please.” His voice was tight; Kay could almost bring himself to believe that Master didn’t want to do this either.

The four flicks of leather against his skin stung and itched. “And hereby I send you from my household.” Master’s voice was low and thick; Kay leaned his forehead against his forearm and didn’t look round. That was it: he had no Master.

“Put your clothes on, and let’s do the other thing.”

He had forgotten: there was something else, although his mind wouldn’t come up with what it was. He followed Master – he was damn well going to call him Master until... he just _was_ – back into the kitchen. Master had his first aid kit, the one with the cool stuff he had used on Kay’s back, and was setting stuff out on the table and muttering to himself.

“Why the blue blazes have we nothing stronger than that by way of anaesthetic? Why did we never think that we might need a general rather than a local?” He looked up at Kay, obviously just thinking aloud. “I could... Hell. I could do it with your Bond-Word. I could, and it would be kinder, but it would set us back months and we don’t _have_ months. Well, we’ll use what we have, and if it’s a combination I wouldn’t generally use, too bad.” He shook two pills out of a small brown bottle and set them on the table, before opening a cupboard for a glass, and taking it to the study, with Kay trailing disconsolately behind. In the study, he filled the glass with the clear spirit he had bought on the market a few weeks before, and which was the only thing he had not shared with Kay in the evenings. This time, he held the glass out.

“Drink that. Use it to wash down the pills. Drink it all.”

It was like drinking liquid fire, and the pills made him cough, but he did as he was told. Then they sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table; Kay just... sat but Master sorted out the first aid kit, muttering to himself, and lining things up. The paintbrushes were there too, and the little bottle he had brought in the day before.

The warmth of the clear drink worked its way out of his stomach and began to make his fingertips tingle; when he turned to see what Master was doing, the world spun a little and resettled, and he giggled. Master smiled at him, but the smile was tight, and didn’t reach his eyes; he was looking worried again.

He giggled again. “What’s so scary, G-man?”

Master froze. “I, I beg your pardon?”

“I said, what’s so scary?”

“What, what did you call me?”

He frowned. “Dunno. Dunno your name so can’t call you that.” He brightened. “I know! I’ll call you Master, how’s that?”

“It, it isn’t what you just said.”

He frowned again. “Isn’ it? Oh, tha’ll be ’cause you said I wasn’ to do it in the house. ’M to call you ‘sir’ in the house, zat right?”

Master frowned, but it looked thoughtful rather than annoyed. “What would you like to call me?”

He considered this owlishly. “Babe.”

There was a long silence, and Master said disbelievingly, “ _Babe?”_

“C’n I call you Babe?”

“No. You’ve called me a lot of names I didn’t care for, and I’ve merely asked you not to, but if you call me that one, there will be trouble. ”

“You gonna spank me again?”

“At the very least, yes.”

“Oh. G-Man?”

“It’s better than Babe. I can’t _imagine_ what the girls would make of you calling me Babe. Would you like to call me G-Man?”

He giggled. “Only do it ’cause it winds you up.”

“You _don’t_ say.”

He shook his head warningly. “You mean ‘no shit, Sherlock!’” and giggled again, leaning forward to rest his head on his folded forearms. Master tapped him on the shoulder.

“Come on. You’re as drunk as I dare make you. Let’s go and do this.”

“What we...? Oh yeah. You’re makin’ me safe, yeah?”

The smile fell off Master’s face as if he had slapped it off, but Master just nodded. He got up, waited for the kitchen to steady, and followed Master outside. They were in the kennel-yard before he thought to wonder what they were doing, and Master was opening the control frame. Suddenly he was _aware_ of not being sober, aware enough to know that something bad was happening, not aware enough to know what it was.

“Take your shirt right off, please, and, and, I’m so sorry, but get in.”

Numbly he obeyed. He didn’t actually know why. He’d seen a control frame used: Old Master’s kennel-man had put one of the farm slaves in it once, for thieving. It was a cage the shape of a slave and not much bigger; inside were shackles which could be pulled tight to stop the inhabitant from moving. It enforced stillness, and... and other things could be done to the one inside. The kennel-man had hung the cage off the ground in the kennel-yard overnight; the slave inside had been naked, kept absolutely still, unable to move enough to ease cramped muscles or keep himself warm, left with neither food nor water until the morning.

He trembled while Master fastened the shackles on his wrists and ankles; he pulled them cruelly tight, and the band across his waist pinched. There was another one over his throat and one at mid chest level. He could kick a little, but his torso was immobilised. Master looked at him, and then at the row of small things he had set on the low wall. Kay couldn’t see, but presently Master came in front of him, holding the first aid kit.

“I, I don’t suppose you’ll ever... God, you’re so brave. If I could think of any alternative, _anything_ , I...” He swallowed. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

It was weird. He had some sort of tape, and he put it on Kay’s chest, up high. That was kinda embarrassing, because when he rested his hand on Kay’s chest, Kay’s nipple thought it was nice and perked up to say so. But Master didn’t even look: he put four strips of tape into a square, a frame, on Kay’s chest, on the side over his heart. Then he got the one of the paintbrushes, and dipped it into the little bottle, and his face went the way it did when he was concentrating _really_ hard, and he spoke, something which Kay could tell at once was a hugely powerful spell. It sorta echoed, even though they were outside, boomed in his ears, and it felt like reality _twisted_. Then Master took the little brush and painted a straight line onto Kay’s chest, inside the square.

Kay screamed.

He bucked so hard that the cage clattered, but the bonds held, and Master, stone-faced, painted a second line, and a third. There were eight in total; Kay was making an odd gargling noise, the world was fading in and out with the pain because Master was cutting his heart out with a paintbrush and a bottle of something clear, and nothing existed except a whole world of hurt.

Master stepped back; he wasn’t sure how he was aware of it but he knew: Master was _counting_ , aloud, counting seconds, it sounded like and even though he only got to ten, it was the longest ten seconds in the entire history of... of history. Then suddenly he was wet, there was water everywhere, he was coughing and gasping and his chest _hurt_ so much and Master was unfastening all the shackles as he fell out of the cage, still screaming, into Master’s arms.

The world went a bit weird then; when it settled down, he was back in the house, on his own bed, and Master was dabbing his stomach dry with a towel. He’d lost his pants somewhere and he was under a sheet which was folded down at his waist. He still hurt more than he would have believed possible, and when he looked down, there was a huge white dressing on his chest. His chest hurt from whatever Master had done, his stomach muscles and throat hurt from the screaming, and his heart hurt from the betrayal.

And when he looked up, Master was crying.  


	18. Kay 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: no, I don't think so. That's novel, isn't it?

The day just sucked. Truly sucked. The pain was unbelievable, although Master gave him another glass of the clear stuff, but he really struggled to get it down. After a while there were a couple more of the pills too, and they helped a bit, but he had never known a pain like the one on his chest. He couldn’t get comfortable in the bed either: he didn’t like lying on his back but if he tried to lie on his side either the thing on his chest pulled or it sort of folded and both ways, it hurt. Master saw that, and after a while he got onto the bed too, and lay so that Kay could sorta lie back against him, not on his side exactly but propped up sideways. Master kept stroking Kay’s arm, very slowly, top to bottom, and that was kinda soothing. If he concentrated on that, he could take his mind off the pain a little bit. He thought he might have fainted; certainly he drifted, because once when he came to himself, the drapes were closed and the lamp beside the bed was switched on, and he didn’t remember Master doing that. Another time, he realised that he was leaning on pillows, not on Master, and when he whined, Master came and brought him water, and more pills, and then coaxed him into sitting up and eating soup. It was good soup – all those vegetables he’d cut up, and the glutinous meat had all sorta fallen to bits – but he couldn’t manage very much.

He slept a little after that, but he woke up feeling like shit. The moment he moved, though, Master was there – and if Master felt like he looked, he felt like shit too – helping him out of bed, half carrying him to the bathroom, _actually_ carrying him back. His legs didn’t work. It was a tremendous relief to be back in bed, but Master ran a hand over his forehead, and frowned, and went away for the first aid kit. Kay flinched when he saw it, but Master only wanted the thermometer, and made a face when he used it.

“Breakfast?”

He shook his head. The very idea of food... But Master brought him water with just a splash of fruit juice in it, and persuaded him to drink it and to take the pills again, and then brought a wet washcloth and a towel, and washed his hands and face for him like he was a child, and tucked him back under the sheet.

The whole day was like that. He was feverish; his shoulder burned; his head hurt; he was nauseous half the time; all his joints ached. Master kept at him to drink, brought him more of the soup, in a tiny bowl, so that he could finish it, and praised him when he did. When he shuddered with cold, Master climbed onto the bed behind him again, and cuddled him; half an hour later he was sweating, and Master brought the washcloth and wiped him down with cool water. He lay on the bed with him, and told him stories: Anansi trading up corn to chickens and chickens to sheep; something about cattle raiding in Ireland with a white bull and a brown bull; the Black School and the wizard who lost his shadow. Kay slipped in and out of sleep and Master was always there; once when he was fretful, Master fetched the comb, and let him sit up, propped against Master’s chest, and Master combed his hair slowly, and... was he _singing?_ Very softly?

The day was long, and tiresome; late on, the pain in his chest eased a little, but his temperature rose and Master made a face over it, and wiped him down with cold water again.

“Could you sit up for five minutes while I change the sheets? Then you could go to sleep if you liked?”

He thought he could; first of all there was more soup, with a little bread to dip in it, although he couldn’t finish it. Then he managed to make it all the way to the bathroom on his own while Master tidied up the bed, and he fell back into it with an exhausted gasp.

“Look, I’ll put the light on the floor; I won’t turn it off but it’ll not be in your eyes. Sleep if you can.”

“Talk to me some more?” he begged, and Master smiled and lay down beside him again.

“Do you know the stories about Nasruddin Hodja?”

He yawned and turned his cheek against Master’s chest. “Tell me.”

He fell asleep in the middle of the one about the parrot and the turkey.

The next day was less painful but he still felt bad; he was miserable and confused, his chest hurt, and he was feverish and irritable. Oddly, once he woke with a start and saw Master sitting in a chair beside his bed, and the first words that came to him were “I _know_ you.” Master looked up, and said calmly, “Well, I should hope so,” and then he wasn’t certain what he had meant, except... No, he didn’t know.

On the third day, he got up, and had most of a bath so as not to get the dressing on his chest wet, and was so exhausted afterwards that he had to go straight back to bed. Master took the dressing off, and did something to the skin underneath; Kay couldn’t bring himself to look. He had begun to feel bad again, differently. His stomach ached and so did his head; Master offered him food, going out specially to buy things he liked, but he couldn’t eat. Even the idea made him queasy. Master was worried, obviously, but didn’t press him, just bringing him juice and encouraging him to drink as much as he could.

At midnight, he started to throw up.

And that was _not_ the word for it. Everything he had eaten, _ever_ , from the feel of it, came up. Master came after him, and after a moment he felt hands on his head, and his hair was twisted back into the tie he had bought on the market. He managed something that _might_ have been thanks – who wanted their hair in their face while they heaved? – before he was overcome by another wave of nausea.

Master rubbed his back and made soothing noises, and brought him a glass of water – but that was only the start of it. Every time he staggered back to bed, thinking that he couldn’t possibly vomit any more, he would drop off to sleep and wake again half an hour later only to have to bolt for the bathroom. He hit the stage where he was just retching and coughing; when he shook his head weakly at Master’s offer to help him back to bed, Master looked at him for a moment, and then went away and came back with a blanket and a pillow.

“Wrap yourself up, you’ll feel worse if you get chilled. Lean on the wall if you need to. Now, drink this.”

“Giles, I can’t. It’ll just come up again.”

Master spilled a little of whatever was in the glass, but his voice was steady. “Just a sip or two. If you retch with absolutely nothing in your stomach, you’ll pull a muscle. Even if all you bring up is water, it won’t hurt as much as dry-heaving.”

The water was hot and tasted odd and he made a face; Master saw. “I know it’s not pleasant, but you’re more likely to keep hot water down than cold, I don’t know why, and it’s got sugar and a little salt in. Try for me?”

When Master used that coaxing tone, he would try, no matter how bad he felt – and he felt bad. They were _hours_ in that bathroom: every time he drank the water, he would bring it up again, until he ended up limply leaning on Master, both of them sitting on the floor, his hair stuck to his sweaty face, a blanket around his shoulders, and tears of misery on his cheeks. Master only ever left him long enough to make up another jug of the sweetened water, and even that felt like abandonment. The third time he went, he turned the light off as he came back; it was way past dawn.

“Another sip, now.”

He drank a little, and rested his head back on Master’s shoulder. He was so tired. Master’s hand was rubbing slowly at his back; he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, it was fully light; he was still wrapped in the blanket and his head was on Giles’ shoulder. Giles himself was asleep, leaning on the wall, mouth a little open, two days of unshaven fuzz on his jaw, eyes heavily shadowed. Xander hadn't seen him look so bad since the days immediately after Angelus. He wasn’t feeling very special himself – he desperately wanted to brush his teeth, he needed to pee, although God alone knew how there was anything liquid left in his body, he was cramped and...

He was Xander. Not Kay: Xander. Not K71B: Xander. And that... the man with the crease mark on his naked chest from a fold in the blanket, and the scars on his sides, and the tattoo on his forearm, that was Giles. Oh merciful God, he’d had Giles holding him up while he’d puked.

He’d walked on a leash for Giles.

He’d cried in front of Giles.

He’d been _spanked_ by Giles.

He’d tried to blow Giles. Twice.

 _(And Giles,_ a little voice pointed out, _wouldn’t let you.)_

He’d been _bought_ by Giles. Fed by hand, by Giles. _Petted_ by Giles.

He’d been sold by Chad. His _boyfriend_ , thankyouverymuch, had sold him into slavery.

And Giles, the guy he’d ripped up at for interfering, had come to rescue him and take him home.

“Giles!”

They’d known for a long time that Giles didn’t do waking up well. Giles waking up on a bathroom floor was a total non-starter. It was as well that Xander knew who Giles was because Giles, apparently, didn’t.

“Hnnnnnh?”

“Giles!”

“Wha’? You sick again?”

Actually, he wasn’t at all sure about that one, and they could _really_ do with opening a window in here.

“No, but Giles! You’re Giles!”

It might have been another ‘no shit, Sherlock’ moment, except that Giles had to stop and think about it; then his expression sharpened.

“I’m Giles. Who are you?”

He climbed shakily to his feet and grinned down at Giles. “I’m Xander Harris and you’re Rupert Giles.”

Giles pushed off the wall and disentangled himself from the blanket. “Thank God for that. Is there any tea?”

It wasn’t precisely the reaction he’d been expecting, but it was so typically _Giles_ that he laughed aloud and staggered towards the door. He had to go back, though: Giles was maybe too old to sleep on floors, and he was struggling some to get up. Not that Xander was much better: his knees weren’t very supportive and when he tried to pull Giles to his feet, they both ended up back on the floor. But they did get up, and there was some polite manoeuvring as to which of them got to pee first, and then yeah, tea happened. The bread was two days old and stale, but Giles made toast, and they didn’t even talk, which was cool with Xander because he had absolutely _no_ idea how to start saying any of the things that probably ought to be said. Like ‘I was a jerk and you were right, Chad was a bad mistake and I shoulda listened when you said so’. Like ‘how much of this do we have to tell Buffy and Willow?’ Like ‘please tell me you were serious when you said that when I got my memory back, you were going to lose yours.’ Like ‘I do trust you because you never told anybody about the hyena thing.’

Unfortunately, he didn’t get round to working out a way to say any of them, because his stomach suddenly announced that no, it hadn’t finished with making his life a hell, and just because he remembered who he was didn’t mean that everything was flowers and puppies now. Now he _knew_ that he was Xander, and that it was Giles rubbing his back while he lost the tea and toast into the toilet, and in some ways that was better because he didn’t feel quite so lost, and in others it was worse because it was _Giles_ helping him back to sit on the bed and not Master.

“Do, do you think you could go back to sleep? Because honestly, I think this is, is what Willow was talking about when she said that you would have to go cold turkey. I don’t think there’s any point in me trying to, to drug you through it – not that there’s much in the first aid kit that would help anyway. I think your best bet is to keep up the liquids and sleep through as much of it as you can.”

He shivered, and nodded. Giles made a face. “Come over to the chair and let me tidy up the bed a little for you.”

And wow, didn’t that feel weird. Master fussing over him was nice, and comforting, and _Giles_ doing it was... just weird. Comforting too, in a different way, but still, it wigged him and he didn’t know what to say, just sat there watching Giles remake his bed.

“There. That should be a bit more, a bit more comfortable. I’ll bring you some water.”

He nodded and slid under the sheet, biting his tongue. He _knew_ what was going on now – well, he knew most of it, he thought. He’d have to have a think because it didn’t all make real good sense – so now he didn’t have the option of begging Giles to lie down with him and tell him stories to make him feel better. He wasn’t _Giles_ ’ pet. Not, of course, that he wanted to be.

He wasn’t sure if the dismal misery he felt was a result of being so nauseous, or shock, or _what_. He pretended to be going to sleep, and then he actually _did_ go to sleep, which was a bit of a surprise. He woke up again feeling thick and stupid, and even more to his surprise _didn’t_ throw up again when he drank the water, and after a while he identified the odd sensation in his stomach as hunger. When he got out of bed, Giles obviously heard him moving and came in, hesitating at the door in a way he hadn't done in a month.

“Is, are you feeling any better?”

He grimaced. “Yeah, I think so. I think I need to try eating again.” He couldn’t say he was enthusiastic; he was hungry but it hadn't gone well last time.

Giles nodded and led the way back to the kitchen, where... actually, one of the reasons he was hungry was that there was a good smell.

“It’s, it’s more soup. I thought you had the best chance of keeping something like that down. It’s chicken. Well, some sort of fowl. Chicken-ish.”

He was suddenly starving, but Giles wouldn’t give him more than half a bowl. “Have some more in half an hour if, if you still feel well then.”

It was really weird. Master had been... When he had thought of Giles as Master, Giles had been decisive and definite and had hardly stammered at all. Now that Xander knew who he was, Giles was being all Sunnydale Librarian again.

And maybe that was because of the ‘he’ and which ‘he’ he meant. Now that Xander knew who Giles was? Or now that Xander knew who Xander was?

His head hurt. Thinking was definitely not something that Xander did well, never had been.

“Penny for them?”

He found that he was just twisting his spoon around inside the bowl. “Huh? Oh... for my thoughts? Not worth that much, Giles. Just... what do we do now?”

“I’ve been packing up while you’ve been asleep. There isn’t much here we need to take home, just, just the books. Well, the clothes are...”

“Gonna look real odd at home, yeah. How do we _get_ home, though?”

Giles rubbed his face. “I’ll, I’ll have another try at contact. Other than that we, we just have to try to be inconspicuous and wait. I, I stocked up the kitchen while you were asleep yesterday, in case we... the Militia is getting rather, rather pushy. I was asked yesterday... well, let’s say that it was made plain to me that I should go sooner rather than later. I’ll try to get Willow again when... Hell. I keep thinking that I should wait because when I tried before, it rather knocked me flat, and I’m not, I’m not completely recovered. But I don’t think we dare wait. I worked out, the most likely time will be in, in about an hour.” He smiled rather sadly at Xander. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get home. So am I.” 

They didn’t talk much more; when Xander hadn't thrown up again after half an hour, Giles gave him a little more soup, which he found he couldn’t finish. He was dead tired, which was weird given that he’d only been out of bed a couple of hours and he hadn't done anything. But he helped Giles stack the books in a tidy pile on the study floor, and then he collapsed onto the couch and Giles, muttering about needing all the help he could get, drew a sort of pentagram on the floor, and knelt in it. Xander could see him gather himself, could see the effort it was in the way the tendons stood out in his neck, could _see_ the tension in his back. He could see the disk form in the air, and Giles’ breath came in harsh gasps as he forced the link to manifest itself.

“Willow! _Willow!_ ”

There was no answer, and the disk wavered, began to lose shape; Giles almost overbalanced and caught himself and dragged in another breath and shouted.

**_“Willow!”_ **

 The disk flashed twice, turning the room to a film negative, and Willow was there. “Hey, did you do that?”

Xander couldn’t resist it: he leaned forwards.

“Hello, Willow.”

Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened; she hesitated, obviously not daring to use his name.

“The G-Man and I are ready to come home, please.”

“Quickly, Willow.” Giles was grey and hoarse and the air was filled with dust from the broken pentagram; Willow grinned widely at them both, threw her arms open and widened the disk. Giles hauled Xander up from the couch and propelled him Willow-wards with a powerful shove; the books came after him, one of them catching him painfully on the ankle, and Giles himself rolled through the closing rift onto the floor of Willow’s room.


	19. Giles 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: the Council.

It was touching to watch: Willow called at once for Buffy, and the pair of them fell on Xander, hugging and (in Willow’s case) crying and talking all at once. They seemed to want to pat him all over to make sure that he was really there; that went by the board when he turned green again and bolted for the bathroom. Both girls turned on him looking for explanations.

“It’s the withdrawal symptoms you mentioned, Willow. We’ve had, I don’t know, two days? A little longer, maybe, of this. He’s vomiting, exhausted...It’s beginning to ease, he’s managed to keep some soup down, but...”

“He can stay here,” Willow assured him. “I can make... um... my mom used to give me applesauce when I was sick.”

His brain skidded. “Stewed apple? I can’t imagine that being... well, if it’s what you’re used to, I suppose. I think it would make me worse. _My_ mother used to make chicken soup with rice in it, or beef shin broth, which is what I’ve been giving him.”

“Crackers,” said Buffy, decidedly, “and bananas.”

His head hurt. “Small amounts of food. As much as he can drink. Can you buy rehydration salts here over the counter or do they need a prescription? I’ve been making a sort of sugar and salt mix for him, but he might do better with the flavoured ones... Oh, I’ve heard a doctor recommend plain salted crisps and flat lemonade for children – sugar, salt, water, effectively, in whatever form will go in.” They both gaped at him, and he translated: “Flat 7-Up and chips.”

Willow nodded thoughtfully. “Giles... is he O.K.? He doesn’t look...”

“He hasn’t slept much in the last couple of days and he’s not eaten properly. He was perfectly healthy before that. He’ll be fine when his stomach settles, I’m sure. Can, can you really keep him here? He ought to be in bed.”

 _He_ ought to be in bed. He had slept no more than Xander had, and in longer; he was no stronger than Xander, for whereas Xander had been undergoing the effects of withdrawal, Giles had, he could tell, more or less depleted the core of his never particularly powerful magic. He’d had to draw on every last reserve to make contact with Willow, and his exhaustion was more than just physical. He had a headache which was half blinding him, he was trembling with weariness, and if it came to looking after Xander, he just didn’t think he could manage any more. He had no great hope of a meal and a sleep making him feel better, either: he didn’t have Xander's youthful resilience. He was middle-aged and had to admit it.

The bathroom door opened, and both Buffy and Willow rushed at Xander, both fussing, both talking, trying to get him to Willow’s bed against his argument that he could take the couch. He was going to lose, Giles could see that.

“Giles, can you move those books?”

Wearily, he picked them off the floor, and stacked them neatly. His back hurt.

“Giles, Buffy says he should have hot milk, but I think milk’s indigestible when you’ve been sick to your stomach, isn’t it?”

“I, I think that the fat in milk on a completely empty stomach might make him vomit again... possibly skimmed milk?” His own stomach was roiling; he hated inter-dimensional travel.

“Giles, what about...”

“I’m sure you can sort it out,” he said exhaustedly. “Look it up on that damned machine of Willow’s. Find a, a, a medical dictionary. I don’t think you should call your doctor because I don’t see how we can make the explanations but I, I don’t think he needs anything more complex than rest and liquids and simple foods.” The pain in his head had all but closed one eye now. “I, if one of you will lend me some money – I have nothing on me but Coblan coinage – I could go home.”

“Oh but Giles...”

“Willow, it may only have been four or five days here but it’s been a hell of a lot longer where we were. I need to go home. I have no money and any self-respecting cab driver is going to look at my clothes and refuse to take me anywhere unless he’s paid up front. You and Buffy and Xander can squabble about who’s going to sleep on the couch.”

She gave him a kicked puppy look. “I thought you would help us look after him. Tell us what to do.”

“I just did,” he said sharply. “Bedrest and liquids. It isn’t more complicated than that. I want a bath and my own clothes and my own house and my own bed, please.” He had half an idea that there _was_ something else he needed to tell her, but he had no idea what it was.

He heard Xander's voice and Buffy giving a squeal of – he didn’t know what emotion – and Willow bolted back towards the bedroom. He sighed. The big canvas bag she used for her computer and her books was sitting on the table; he went through it methodically, looking for her purse, and carefully wrote an IOU for the twenty dollars he took from it. Then he called for a cab, and while he waited, drifted up to glance through the bedroom door.

Xander was asleep in Willow’s bed, one hand in hers; she was curled against his side. Buffy was sitting on the end of the bed; she looked up and set her finger on her lips. He smiled wearily at her, but he could see that all her attention was on Xander.

The honk from the street told him his cab was there; he picked up as many of the books as he could carry, and went.

His own house looked... odd. Small. He tried to avoid the word ‘poky’ but after the open spaces he had shared with Xander, it felt cramped. There was junk mail on the floor, and his answering machine was flashing irritably.

A secretary from the Council. Big Name wanted to speak to him, if he would be so kind as to call them back.

The same secretary again. Big Name was anxious to speak to him at the earliest opportunity.

A different secretary, one he knew to be more senior. Big Name yada yada.

A different voice, indifferent, asking where he was; various people needed to speak to him and would he please call as soon as he came in.

The same voice, icily disapproving: he was to call _immediately_.

The phone rang while he was standing there; for a split second he thought about ignoring it, but he accused himself of cowardice and picked it up.

“Rupert.”

“Father.”

“How kind of you to answer your telephone at last.”

He was defensive at once. “I haven’t been in the house for five minutes. I haven’t even...”

“It doesn’t matter. Rupert, where have you _been?_ ”

“It was called Coblan,” he said coldly. “A different dimension.”

“You actually _went?_ After the Council expressly forbade it?”

“Yes.” He stretched for a chair and fell into it; it wasn’t just his back that hurt now. His legs ached and his shoulders too.

“Some of the senior members said you would have gone; I refused to believe that you could have done anything so irresponsible.”

 _Wrong again, then,_ he thought, but he had enough sense not to say it aloud.

“What on earth did you do that for?”

He was startled. “Don’t you know? I, I called several times before I went. Spoke to two or three people. And I wrote, as well; I, I had to give somebody the letter to post but...”

“Yes, yes, we saw that but what in the name of wonder did you think you were _doing?_ ”

He was beginning to be irritated. “I was going,” he said crisply – or as crisply as he could manage, given his exhaustion and the pain in his head, “to try to retrieve a friend who had been captured and taken to another dimension without his consent.”

“This is the Slayer’s young man.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not as you mean it. They’re not romantically involved. He’s her friend. Probably her closest friend.”

“She shouldn’t _have_ intimate friends. It’s too dangerous for a Slayer – well, this is a case in point, isn’t it? Was he taken _because_ he was her friend?”

“I, I don’t think so. I think it was an unexpected extra. I, I actually think it’s a ring, an organisation taking orders. Bookings. I think...”

“Rupert, it’s wholly irrelevant. What’s relevant is that rescuing this man is no part of a Watcher’s duty.”

“It’s the duty of any decent human being,” he argued hotly. His father snorted.

“And by that argument you should be chasing slavers across the multiverse and saving puppies from the dogs’ home. Rupert, you’re a Watcher, God alone knows why. Your duty is to _be_ the Watcher. You can’t be the Watcher if you’re in a totally different dimension to your Slayer! The Council told you to leave it alone and to concentrate on your duties in _this_ dimension, and you disobeyed.” His voice went cold. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised but I’ll admit that I was disappointed.”

And after forty years, that _still_ hurt. He opened his mouth to defend himself, and found that he was too tired, both physically and mentally. He couldn't put together a coherent, cohesive argument. He did the best he could. “Xander Harris is a significant element of the Slayer’s backup. I know you still think that the Slayer and the Watcher should be enough for each other, but I _know_ Buffy, and she needs more.”

“Then she’s a poor Slayer. No other Slayer has wanted a, a _support team_.”

“How do you know?” he asked as reasonably as he could manage. “Maybe they’ve all wanted them. Maybe Buffy’s the only one who’s made it far enough to _get_ one; in that case if she wants one, then my responsibility to look after her includes looking after the members of her team.”

His father snorted. “You do talk a lot of nonsense, Rupert. The Slayer does what her Watcher tells her – or she _should_ , at least.”

There _was_ a defence to that but it would be discourteous to use it.

“You never did pay that much attention to the traditions, though. I always found it disappointing that you had so little respect for the way things ought to be done.”

“I don’t see that a tradition has any value simply because it’s ‘the way we’ve always done things’. If that’s your argument, then we would still be sending children up chimneys and trapping badgers to be torn apart by dogs.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was contemptuous, and bugger discourtesy, if he had only one shot in his locker, he might as well use it.

“I’ve got an active Slayer, and I’ve kept her alive longer than any Slayer in the annals. If you had ever been the active Watcher, you might think differently.” He refused to think that it was a low blow. His father had been a responsible and careful Watcher; it was a matter of some surprise to the Council generally that the spellwork nominating the active Watcher had never put up his name. He had always said that he didn’t regret it; Giles knew that to be a barefaced lie. The cold silence told him that his shot had hit the target; then his father regrouped.

“This conversation about ifs and buts isn’t productive. At least you’re back now. I sincerely hope we’re not going to hear any more about this.”

He hoped so too but it seemed unlikely. He would need to get hold of Willow at the _first_ opportunity, to see off the impending disaster – he was going to get a rocket set underneath him, he knew that, but with a bit of luck it would only be from the administration people and not from the senior members of the Council. His father would call him again and be disappointed with him, and disapproving, he was sure of that and he was simply too tired to think of anything to stave it off. He would just have to hope that when the shit met the fan, Willow could provide some sort of protection.

“I don’t know what you were thinking, putting in an advance expense claim that size, particularly when it was nothing to do with either the Watcher or the Slayer.”

Double bugger. He had hoped that his father hadn't heard that bit, and indeed wouldn’t hear it until afterwards.

“Ludicrous. Careless of you, Rupert. No good reason to request the funds at all, and getting it wrong by that much of a factor as well... You nearly gave Caddick a heart attack.”

Hell. He’d hoped it would have gone to Westerfield, who was half Caddick’s age and could occasionally be persuaded to do something outside Watcher regulations because it made more sense in the modern world, but as usual, obviously, anything that _could_ go wrong _had_ gone wrong.

“I mean, you couldn’t possibly have needed that sort of sum.”

He had enough wit to say nothing, but there was obviously something in the quality of his silence, because his father heard the denial.

“Rupert! Do you mean to tell me that you were _serious?_ ”

He hadn't _meant_ to tell him _anything._

“ _Rupert!_ What could you possibly need that sort of money for?”

He was suddenly furious. “To buy Xander Harris back. Yes, I could probably have gone in all guns blazing and made an, an international – interdimensional – incident about it, or I could do what I _did_ , which was get in and out as discreetly as possible, without the Slayer apparently being involved at all. Without anybody making anything of the fact that _yes_ , she’s vulnerable that way, as you said. The plain fact that she _has_ friends makes her vulnerable, as you have pointed out. But the fact that she has friends – that she has support mechanisms _other_ than me – makes her strong. I needed instant access to funds and the Council was the only place I could think of to get them. I know what I need to do to recover the funds and I’ll get onto that tomorrow. Tomorrow, Father. Not right this instant, on account of not even having had time to go for a _pee_ since I got back.”

“Are you telling me that you, that you just _took_ the money?”

“Yes,” he said baldly.

“And how do you propose to get it back? Sell the boy again?”

“I, I have a plan. You’ll have the money by Friday.”

“I should bloody well hope so. Caddick’s already foaming at the mouth, and if he finds out you simply took the money, he’ll press for a disciplinary charge against you. You seem to forget, Rupert – you have no friends here.”

He could never forget that.

“You do _realise_ that you’ll be held personally liable for any shortfall? And that a shortfall of that size... bloody hell, Rupert, they’ll have you out so fast your feet won’t touch the ground.”

“Thank you for that expression of confidence.”

“The others were right, I think: they all think you have a most unreasonable affection for the girl but it sounds as if that’s not the half of it. What’s your relationship with the boy? Because it sounds bloody unhealthy if you ask me.”

“Well, I didn’t ask you,” he snapped. “I’m, I’m quite well aware that you think I’m an unreliable Watcher and an undutiful son, but guess what, Father? I’m all grown up now. I don’t have to chase your approval, which is just as well, because I can’t remember ever having it. Whatever I did was never good enough for you. My Slayer – _my_ Slayer, not yours, not anybody else’s – has lasted longer than any previous Slayer. She’s not going to die for the lack of my care; she’s not going to despair for the lack of her friends, not if I can do anything to prevent it. I think you’ve forgotten that the Council is supposed to serve the Slayer, not the other way around. And if that means protecting Xander Harris, then I’ll protect Xander Harris and you can...” He struggled for words and found himself reduced to Americanisms and Xander's own terminology. “You can just put on your big boy pants and _deal_.”

“I have no idea,” said his father coldly, “what that is supposed to mean. From all I’ve heard, the young man got himself into that mess. That makes him collateral damage and _no concern of ours._ You cannot expect the Council to foot the bill for him. It’s unfortunate that he was in trouble but your duty was – however regrettably – to sacrifice him if needed for the greater good. You’ll have no sympathy from this end.”

A click told him that the conversation was over; he replaced the phone gently, ignoring his almost overwhelming desire to smash it on the desk. He looked up at himself in the big mirror facing the door, which reflected – or did not reflect – trouble trying to get inside.

“Well done, Giles,” he said bitterly to his reflection. “Good work. Excellent job.”

He might as well say it: it didn’t sound as if anybody else was going to.


	20. Giles 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: mild frustration.

Willow looked anxious when she opened the door. “Hey, Giles. Buffy’s not here yet.”

“How is Xander?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not wonderful. He’s stopped being sick, but he doesn’t want to eat anything, and I think he should be drinking more. His temperature’s way up, too. He’s keeps starting to talk and then stopping; he won’t tell us anything. He asked for you a couple of times – woke up confused and seemed to think you would be here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is he awake now?”

He was: he managed a smile for Willow, but his attention was on Giles.

“How are you feeling this morning?”

“Sore. Will, could I have some more water? Maybe with some ice in?” He gave her puppy-dog eyes, and she hurried to pick up his glass and fetch what he wanted. Xander turned to Giles as soon as she was out of the room.

“What have you told them? How much do they know?”

Giles shook his head. “They know what we told them while we were there. I haven’t, I haven’t discussed it with them since we came back. Well, I haven’t been here.” He saw Xander's apprehensive expression. “I, I wasn’t intending to go into detail, Xander. They know it, it was unpleasant for you.”

“Unpleasant. Yeah, unpleasant about covers it,” muttered Xander, looking away. Giles felt a spike of sympathy.

“Have they been pressing you for more information than you’re comfortable giving them?”

Xander grimaced. “Some, yeah. I’ve told them a little bit about... about the place I was before you came. I haven’t said much about... about how it was when you were there.”

Ah. “I believe I told you that once your memory was restored, mine would be gone without trace. This, this is your story to tell, or not tell, Xander.” He listened for Willow and added in an undertone, “If you’re concerned about specifics...”

“Am, kinda.”

“Very well. I have not mentioned, nor do I intend to, that your previous owner sent you to me with instructions to... ah... spend the night. I haven’t mentioned that, well, that that was what they kept you for. I haven’t said anything to imply that you thought I had, that you believed I bought you for... I have said nothing about that. I have not mentioned anything to do with pets.”

Xander was a rich crimson. “Thank you. And... Review Day...”

“Nothing happened on Review Day. Nothing at all.”

Xander slumped back against his pillows. “I... yeah, I did remember, sorta, that you said you weren’t gonna remember anything, but... Yeah. I don’t know what to tell them, Giles. I guess I gotta tell them _some_ , but there’s some of it I don’t want to.”

“Swamp them with detail,” he suggested. “Your choice of detail. Tell them about the library. They’ll stop listening soon enough. How are you really feeling?”

Xander sighed. “Better, but... it’s slow, yeah? Like getting over a real bad virus. I keep thinking I feel better and then I get up to go to the bathroom and I’m on my knees coming back.” He looked mournfully at Giles. “I’m tired of this. I want to be better.”

Giles nodded sympathetically. “And your...” he waved at the bandage on Xander's chest.

“Oh... I haven’t... it doesn’t hurt so much now.”

“Have you changed the dressing? No? Perhaps I could... or would you rather have Willow?”

Willow arrived, on cue. “Ice water, Xan.” More puppy-dog eyes, from her to Giles this time. “Giles, what should we be doing?

“Giles is gonna change my bandage,” said Xander, quickly.

Willow shuddered. “What do you need?”

He got up. “Water and the first aid kit, and a clean cloth, that’s all.”

He managed to get rid of her by telling her that he needed coffee; Xander's burn was healing cleanly, and re-dressing it was the work of two minutes, but he could see that Xander was fading. “Drink your water, and then what about a nap? Have you eaten this morning?”

Xander made a face. “Toast. Yeah, I could sleep again.”

“Don’t fight it,” advised Giles, gently. “Your body knows what it needs; let it look after itself.”

He went back out to meet Willow coming the other way with a mug, which he took from her gratefully.

“Oh... is he...?”

“Going back to sleep. Willow, I, I need your help.”

“Is he... Giles, is he really gonna be O.K.?”

“He’ll be fine. He’s just... think of it as a really bad go of flu. Not office flu, not a head cold and a temperature, a day in bed and a day feeling rough and back to work, but a full scale influenza. He’s young, he’s fit, he’ll get over it, but he’s going to feel dreadful for a week and as weak as a kitten for another week, and there’s almost nothing you can do about it. Keep the liquids coming, keep the invalid diet coming, let him sleep it off.”

She didn’t look comforted.

“But Willow, I really need you to do something for me.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t look so special either, Giles.”

“I don’t feel special at all.”

“Maybe you should try for a day or two in bed with tea and toast yourself?”

He closed his eyes. It sounded like heaven – but who would make tea and toast for him? “I haven’t time, Willow. I’m going to be in trouble with the Council for going away.”

“Oh, the Council,” she said dismissively.

“I had to,” _hit them up_ “to call on them for help with money when I went for Xander; I’ve, I’ve worked the Council credit card rather hard and they’re, they’re...”

Xander called, weakly; Willow was gone instantly. Giles sighed, and drank his coffee. She came back.

“Giles, is he really O.K.?”

He could feel his headache reforming. “I believe so, Willow. He’s much better already than he was in the first twenty-four hours. Don’t worry about him so much. Just, keep doing what you’re doing, and be sympathetic. He’s not really seriously ill – he just feels it. Now, listen, Willow. I need you to sort the finance for me.”

She looked interested.

“I know I, I’ve always told you not to do that sort of thing, but, but needs must when the devil drives. You told me once before that you could, that you could predict the stock markets using that damned machine of yours and a little, a little scrying?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah. And you said it was immoral and I wasn’t to do it.”

His turn to wrinkle his nose. “I’m, I’m not sure that I said it was _immoral_ , but certainly, scrying for personal gain tends to work perfectly well half a dozen times, and then result in an almighty disaster. I’m, I’m just hoping that we can get away with one of the half dozen times.”

She looked interested. “So... what do you want me to do?”

He thought about it carefully, as if he hadn’t spent half the night thinking about it. “Not force anything. I don’t want you to interfere. Don’t put your thumb on the scales. I just want you to do some careful, detailed prediction, and then...”

There was a bang at the door and Buffy burst inside. “Hey Willow, hey Giles! How’s Xander?”

“Giles says he’s better, but honestly, Buffy, I don’t know that he really is...” The pair of them made their way back to Xander's room; Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. Presently Willow came back.

“Buffy agrees with me, Giles, we don’t think he’s any better.”

“You didn’t see him five days ago,” he said sharply. “Has he thrown up in the last half hour? No? Has he managed to drink anything more than plain water? Yes? Has he eaten anything and kept it down for more than twenty minutes? Yes? Then he is a _lot_ better and _please_ will you...”

Buffy called, and Willow was gone again. He wondered briefly if it would be a problem if he were to beat his forehead repeatedly against the bedroom door. Presently the door opened; this time it was Buffy who emerged.

“Giles, do you really think...”

He prayed briefly for patience and went through it all again, for Buffy. She frowned.

“But shouldn’t he be... I dunno, shouldn’t it be wearing off by now?”

“Buffy, I have _no idea_. I don’t know how long withdrawal symptoms last if it’s the effect of drugs; I suspect that it depends on the drug and the length of time the user has been... using. Magical withdrawal? _I don’t know._ Even if I did know, would it depend on the length of time he had been bespelled? The strength of the spell? The strength of the caster? The underlying mage strength of Xander himself? He has some, although it’s not much. _I don’t know_ and we can’t afford to put our whole lives on hold just to wait and see. You’re the Slayer, you have to slay; I’m the Watcher, I have to watch. And just at the moment, I have to try to put together the parts of my life which are showing signs of coming undone on account of my having been in Coblan looking after Xander instead of being here carrying out the duties for which I am paid. I’m sorry he’s still feeling bad but _I have no more suggestions_ and I can’t see that he’s getting any worse. Please will you just, just possess your soul in patience? If, if he’s no better by the weekend, then I’ll look into it, but until then...”

“The _weekend?_ Giles, really, he’s gotta be better before then surely?”

He removed his spectacles and reached for his handkerchief. “Why? If this were a virus, if, if he had flu, proper flu, I mean, as I said to Willow, proper influenza, not just a bad cold and a temperature, it wouldn’t be at all surprising if it lasted two weeks. He’s healthy enough underneath it; I don’t think he’s in any danger. I do, I understand that you’re concerned, but I really need...”

Willow called, and Buffy was on her feet at once, looking anxiously towards the bedroom; he felt a blast of irritation and focused his attention hard on her. “ _Buffy!_ I need Willow to do something for me... I’m going to be in trouble with the Council if...”

“Oh, the Council,” she said, in precisely the same tone as Willow had used.

“ _Yes_ , the Council. I need to get...”

But Willow called again – and Buffy was gone. He actually found himself with his hand out, trying to catch at her sleeve like an importunate child tugging at its mother.

He waited for another half hour; neither girl reappeared.

More disturbing was that when he called again the next day, the whole scene was repeated. He redressed Xander's chest; Buffy and Willow questioned him interminably about why Xander wasn’t improving as fast as they would like; neither of them would give him their undivided attention for more than two minutes at a stretch. Eventually he gave up on persuasion, wrapped his hand around Willow’s wrist and refused to let go when she tried to rush away to Xander's side. She turned back to him, frowning.

“Help me, Willow. I need you to help me.”

“Oh... yeah. You said. Something about scrying the NASDAQ? Can it wait, Giles?”

“No.” He put all the force, all the Watcher command he could manage into the word, and she frowned at him again.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I need a _lot_ of money, and I need it fast. I need to be able to transfer it to London within three days. It’s an emergency. If you don’t do it for me I’m going to be in more trouble than...”

“Willow?”

He could have screamed with frustration: Buffy was hovering in the doorway again. Willow pulled away.

“I’ll do it, Giles, yeah? Just not right this instant. I’ll do it later. I’ll call you and you can tell me how much and by when and where you need it to be, yeah? But Xander...”

It was, he supposed, the best he was going to get.


	21. Willow 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: dismay.

By the middle of the afternoon, she had stopped even pretending to think about what Giles had wanted. It had sounded like fun – and she wouldn't say that she had never thought about it before. Sometimes at night if she couldn’t get to sleep, she would lie in bed and work out stuff like that – how to do a bank fraud and not get caught, how to play the stock markets and come out ahead. By mid-afternoon, though, Xander was babbling and she was wigging about it. He was way too hot, he was thrashing about way too much in the bed, and although he went back to sleep every time, he was obviously having bad dreams. When Buffy came in, they sat, one on each side of the bed, watching him anxiously.

He woke up again, and she smiled carefully at him. “Hey, Xander. How are you feeling?”

“Like crap,” he said faintly.

“Can you drink something? Some juice? Soda?”

He moved uncomfortably. “Is there any tea?”

Buffy gawked at him. “ _Tea?_ ”

He closed his eyes again. “Master lets me have tea after dinner.”

Willow’s eyes met Buffy’s across his body. “Master?”

“Giles. I mean Giles. He’s Master.”

This was way... She didn’t know. “I’ll make you some tea.”

“Please. Lots of milk and two sugars. Master doesn’t have sugar in his, and much less milk. Maybe you’d better let me do it. I know the way he likes it.”

Another exchange of glances. “Xander, Giles isn’t here.”

“Oh.” A long silence and then, tentatively, “I think he’d allow me to have some tea anyway.”

The silence on their part was even longer and then Willow got up. “I’ll make tea.”

Curiously, Xander drank all of the tea; everything else they had given him, he had taken half of and abandoned the rest. She commented on it.

“The G-Man taught you to drink tea, Xan?”

For a moment, she thought that his mouth quivered, almost as if he might cry. “I made his tea at night, and he would pet me.”

Another crossing of glances with Buffy.

“Huh?”

“Master. Master stroked my hair.”

“ _Huh?_ ”

But Xander was asleep again, and Buffy and Willow were staring at each other across the bed.

He woke again later, making a bit more sense when he talked, but this time she made tea without prompting, and again he drank it all.

Buffy was curious. “So Xan, what’s this about your Master?”

Xander went still. “He wasn’t... I guess he was... Technically, I belonged to Mistress. I was a present for her, birthday or something. She was... she was O.K., I guess. Just a bit... She wanted me in the house, as an ornament, but there wasn’t enough going on for that so I had to work outside most of the time.”

“What did you do?” Buffy again.

Xander shrugged. “Cleaned things. Carried things.”

Willow picked up on the previous line. “An _ornament?_ ”

Xander shrugged again. “I held things at parties. Fetch and carry work.” He sounded deeply unhappy; Buffy frowned.

“I know it was... I know you were... it was strange and scary and the rest, but the work side of it doesn’t sound so bad?”

He gave her a level stare. “If I screwed up, old Master beat me with a thing like a riding whip.”

“Old Master?”

“The first one. The guy who bought me at the auction. The guy who had me trained.” He stopped suddenly; Willow saw him swallow hard.

“But then Giles came,” she said comfortingly, and Xander smiled at her.

“Yeah. He was... I was real scared.”

“Of _Giles?_ ” Buffy obviously couldn’t imagine anybody being scared of Giles. Xander flushed.

“I didn’t know what... Old Master sent me... I was supposed to look after him, and I didn’t know... I didn’t remember him, and I was scared of doing something wrong and being... and getting into trouble again.”

“Yeah, but Giles isn’t exactly high maintenance, is he? Looking after him wouldn’t be such a big deal.”

Xander looked away and something in his expression gave Willow a _serious_ attack of wig. “Xan... What does ‘looking after’ Giles mean?”

He didn’t answer; Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “Xan?”

He shrugged. “I ran his bath, tidied up his room... brought him anything he wanted. Fetched his breakfast.” He smiled, but it wasn’t convincing. “He shared it with me. Which was cool, it was way better food than I’d have got out in the yard.”

“The _yard?_ ” asked Buffy sharply.

He looked away again. “Buff... are you not getting this? I lived in the yard. In a kennel. A cage. I wasn’t people, I was livestock. Property. I got fed from a bowl, no flatware. I had... I had a litter box in my cage. I washed under the stable tap except when I was needed in the house. Then I was scrubbed, usually by somebody else, in the utility room in the basement. I got fed like livestock too. Like... no choices. Well, the choice was eat it or don’t, but in my training, it wasn’t even that. It was eat or be punished. Once I got to the house, if I really didn’t like whatever it was I didn’t have to eat it but there wasn’t anything else. Like when you have a dog, and you buy whatever dog food is on special offer, and if your dog doesn’t like the liver one, that’s too bad because there are four cans of it in the case? So you put it down anyway and you say ‘if he’s hungry enough, he’ll eat it’, yeah? Well, I was usually hungry enough and I ate whatever it was. On a _good_ day, it was yesterday’s stale leftovers from the house. Giles shared his breakfast with me and I was grateful. I thought... I didn’t know who he was and I was still scared of him – of screwing up and making him angry – but he was kind to me.”

“But...” Willow thought it might have been better to have just shut up and left this alone, but Buffy was pushing. “If all you had to do was, was valet him, why would you be scared of screwing up? I mean, Giles wears the tweed, yeah, but given that he thinks a three piece suit is suitable for California on a Saturday night, he’s not exactly all fashion icon guy. And we know what’s in his bathroom cabinet: one sort of cologne and yeah, it’s an expensive one and he uses the matching shower stuff, but he doesn’t put stuff on his hair, he doesn’t put stuff on his skin, he doesn’t read _Details_ and follow the tips.”

“ _But I didn’t know that_ ,” said Xander sharply. “All I knew was that I was supposed to be sharing his...” He cut himself off abruptly, and Willow _saw_ Buffy make the leap.

“Bed.”

Xander looked away. “Yeah.”

There was a long silence, and Buffy, who was way braver than Willow, asked the question. “Did you have to... did you have to do that? I don’t mean with Giles, I mean with... somebody else?”

He shook his head, but her relief curdled when he said, quietly, “I was trained to do it. They didn’t... I never actually had to... they aren’t human and the, the... the interlocking bits don’t interlock so I didn’t... But they knew Giles was human, and, and, I don’t know, I suppose he must have said something to imply that he was good with it being a man and not a woman. So they sent me to him.”

Her heart turned over as she worked out the implications. “Oh, Xan! And you didn’t even know who he was?”

“He was the guy who could have me whipped if he didn’t like me,” he said harshly. “That’s what I knew. And he was good to me. He fed me, he spoke to me kindly, he let me sleep on his couch.” She thought there was something he wasn’t telling them, but... 

“Giles didn’t say anything about that.” Buffy was subdued.

“Giles saw how scared I was. And Giles knows that I... that I’m not real comfortable with this. I mean, I’m thinking that sooner or later I would have been given to _somebody_ and I’m wigging at what nearly happened. And then I think, I was given to _Giles_ , and even though he didn’t... he wouldn’t, ya know? I’m thinking, _I was given to Giles_ and I’m wigging at what _didn’t_ happen as well. And then Giles, Giles took me away, and I was all scared again, because I didn’t know what he wanted. I wasn’t... I was only halfway a houseboy. The rest of the time I was farmhand, stableboy, outside help. And Giles fairly obviously didn’t need those. His house was a big fancy one, pool, everything expensive. He said... he said the people, Old Master, they were old money and lots of it, and if he was to get in with them, he had to look like old money too, like even if he was just on holiday he could have what he wanted without thinking about whether or not he could pay for it. He really _didn’t_ need a half-broken house slave with no idea how to look after the house, or him... I thought I was gonna have to... ya know, and he made it plain I wasn’t, but I was shit-scared and if he didn’t want that, what the hell _did_ he want? Because I _really_ wasn’t trained for anything else.”

It was turning to Xander-babble, and she could see how scared he had been; she thumped down on the bed and wrapped her arms around him. “But Giles was good, wasn’t he? That first night we called you guys, you were all... we could see you were worried, but you were telling us Giles was being kind to you. O.K., it was a value of ‘kind’ that gave us some serious wig, but it was definitely of the good.”

Xander nodded. “It’s weird, thinking about it now. At the time I didn’t know that Giles was Giles, so what he did was... it was just what he did. Some of it was, yeah, that’s what Masters do, nothing unusual about it. And some of it wasn’t, and I worked out real quick that I’d fallen on my feet. I was sleeping in the house. I wasn’t being kept in a cage. I was eating what Mas... what Giles ate, and even better than that, Giles remembered – or noticed – that there are things I don’t like and he didn’t feed them to me. He likes shellfish; I don’t like anything that looks squirmy. So a couple of times, he bought something for himself and something different for me. And that was... that was _so_ not what I was expecting my owner to do, yeah?

“And he figured – this is Giles we’re talking about, all brains guy, so surprising? Not so much – he figured that I was totally wigged, I didn’t know what he wanted me to do. Because, see, I’d been trained to do certain things, and he didn’t want me to do any of them.” He blushed suddenly, and she wondered what _exactly_ he’d been trained to do, and decided she didn’t need to know that badly. “But that meant that I didn’t know what to do instead. And Giles was real good about saying ‘what I want you to do now is this, and nothing else.’” He looked from Willow to Buffy and back. “He had to tell me just about everything. Come and eat. Go to bed. Sit here. He was so pleased when I started being able to say ‘shall I do this?’ I... it was like I needed to ask him if it was O.K., I had to check that I had permission, but he was real pleased when I had ideas of my own, even if they were only ‘I’m gonna clean the bath and then I’ll make your tea after, O.K.?’”

Buffy was still looking shocked. “You asked permission for _everything?_ ”

“Pretty much, yeah.” He hesitated, and then said unwillingly, “It didn’t work so well for me the time I didn’t.”

Buffy opened her mouth, obviously to ask, and Xander added hastily, “Not that Giles was... Giles didn’t mind, it’s just that I got wigged if I thought he...”

And that, presumably, was what was behind Xan saying that he thought Giles would allow him to have tea – like Giles would care whether Xan had tea or not.

“Sounds like you spent most of your time being wigged,” said Buffy, obviously making a real effort not to sound judgmental. Xander nodded.

“Did. And Giles was great, he was... Well, he was Giles. Now that I know, he was Giles all the time. We spent hours at the library: he worked like a dog. But he was always looking out for me as well, you know? He was all reassurance guy: everything was gonna be fine, I would remember who I was any time now, it would all work out. And he must have been shitting bricks underneath, because I _wasn’t_ remembering and it _wasn’t_ being fine, and God, I needed him to be telling me every five minutes that I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I must have been driving him crazy, and he never said so, never... Never snapped the way he does sometimes at us, you know, when he’s telling us what we have to do and we don’t want to do it the Watcher way? He never did that, not once. He was all quiet and calm, and total reassurance guy, all the way to...” He dried up, looking a bit... no, looking _way_ odd.

“All the way to...?” prompted Buffy.

Xander looked down at his chest, and didn’t answer.

“Xan? All the way to what?” For some reason, she felt uneasy, and she thought Buffy was feeling it too. Xander looked confused.

“All the way,” he said slowly, and in a very small voice, “to when he branded me.”


	22. Willow 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: insert doom music here.

She didn’t let Buffy drive. Buffy was so hyper that... well, even on a good day, Willow didn’t care to let Buffy drive, not if Willow had to get in the car with her, and this was _so_ not a good day.

After she cut up the second guy, she thought that perhaps she ought not to have driven either, but it’s not like there was anybody else. They had left Xander in bed, all shaky and bewildered; Buffy had been stamping about and starting sentences and not finishing them, and then she had said abruptly that she was going to see Giles, and Willow had said equally abruptly that she was coming too, and when Buffy had said something about shouldn’t one of them stay with Xander, Willow had said flatly that in that case, Buffy could stay, and they exchanged glances and then she picked up her keys and went to check that Xander had everything he needed.

She didn’t know how she felt. Nothing of the good, that went without saying, because Xander had a brand on his chest and Giles had put it there and...

She rather thought that Buffy was sorry when Giles answered the door; she had the distinct impression that Buffy wanted to kick a door in, and was pissed at it not being necessary.

“Buffy? Wi... Willow? Is something the matter? Is Xander...?”

“Yeah,” said Buffy darkly. “Xander is. And we want to know why.”

“I, I beg your pardon?”

_“What the fuck did you brand him for?”_

And Giles just stared at her, blankly, and then said in his most reasonable voice, “Buffy, I really... That’s between Xander and me.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“What? No! Buffy, what is this about?”

“Did you _want_ to?”

She was sounding more and more aggressive with every question, and Giles was looking more and more irritated.

“Buffy, if you can’t make sense, I think you should go home.”

“What happened when he didn’t ask permission for things?”

_“What?”_

“It didn’t go well for him the time he didn’t ask permission, he said. _What did you do to him?_ ”

Giles turned away. “I’m not discussing this with you. Whatever Xander has chosen to, to tell you, or not to tell you, that’s, that’s his concern, not yours. If, if Xander has any complaint about the way I treated him, he can, he can come and speak to me himself.”

“The way you... Giles, he’s got a _brand_ on his chest! You marked him with _acid!_ He’s gonna carry that mark until he dies and... what was that about?”

Giles was putting on that stubborn look he wore sometimes. “Again, Buffy, that is between Xander and me. Xander knows why I did it. Why it was necessary for me to do it. If you think you absolutely have to know I suggest that you ask Xander about it; you surely can’t believe that I would have done anything so, so painful, and permanent, if I could have thought of a way around it. It was _necessary_. I, I don’t mind telling you the outline: the Doxe’s Militia was looking for runaway slaves to conscript. If they had got the idea that Xander wasn’t properly owned, then God alone knows what might have happened. It, it was hard enough finding him once; doing it a second time...”

Buffy was shaking her head. “But he _was_ owned. You had bought him, you told us all about it. He had your name on his tags. And he says he _doesn’t_ know why you did it.”

Giles frowned. “That can’t be right. I explained it all to him. And there was a risk that...”

“You didn’t give Xander the chance to say if he wanted to take the risk, and it _wasn’t_ a real risk anyway because you had him in the house and you didn’t need to take him out again, you could have just kept him there until he was fit to come home.”

“But Buffy, there was an increasing chance that I _couldn’t_...”

She could feel the rage and offence rise in her, that Xander was scarred, scarred for life by this man who wouldn’t even tell them why. She bit down on it, chilled it, froze the fury to cold understanding, and put together what she had seen over the past six months and what she had carefully not been thinking about since the first mention of Serpentine and the fact that Giles had said he knew about it.

“Did you sleep with him?”

He was still facing Buffy; it caught him by surprise. “Wh... what?”

She felt the power rise a little in her. _“Did you sleep with him?”_

“No!”

 _“Did you want to?_ Is that what this is about, Giles? Have you been getting all snitty about Xander's boyfriends because you wanted him? That rune you put on his shoulder, was that gonna tie him to you here as well as there? Did you tell him that he needed it, that he needed to be marked as being owned by you, so that when he came back here...”

_“NO!”_

And something else came to her. “He said it didn’t go well when he didn’t ask for permission – that first night, Giles, he said you didn’t punish him even when he deserved it. What about later? Buffy’s right: we want to know. What _did_ happen when he didn’t ask permission for something?”

His stubborn expression hardened into blankness. “What happened on Coblan is between Xander and me.”

Her voice was rising; she always tended to pitch higher and higher when she was upset. “Giles, did you hit him? _What did you do?_ ”

“Ask Xander. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. If he hasn’t told you, do you think it’s possible that maybe _he wants you to mind your own bloody business?_ ”

Her hair was fluffing a little; it did that when the witchy-power was strong.She was searching her mind for a truth spell but something else came to mind first: a little diddy baby spellette that she remembered seeing back in library days. The witchy power rather overfilled it, but what the hell...

The sparks filled her hand and she flung them at Giles with a Word.

He threw his head back, and gasped; Buffy froze.

“Will? What’s... what’s that?”

“That,” she said bitterly, “is how Giles feels about Xander. The yellow aura? That’s good feelings. The brighter it is, the better the feelings.”

“That’s, that’s not precisely...”

“And the black cobwebby stuff, Buffy? That’s bad feelings. You got bad feelings about Xander, Giles? That’s a big black network running through the yellow. What’s that?” Her words were tumbling over each other. “Is that the sort of thing you do at Serpentine? Is that you wanting to hurt Xander? Wanting to have him as _your_ slave? Is that what you did? Put your mark on him because then when he came home, he’d go on being yours? Because he’s been real odd these last few days, Giles, he talks about ‘Master’ and it sounds like he means you, he’s still saying that he thinks you would ‘allow’ things and...”

Giles snapped his hands down between them, breaking her concentration, and the glowing aura dissipated.

“If you’re going to cast these spells, Willow, you need at least...”  

“Was that it, Giles?” Buffy looked sick. He turned his head towards her.

“No.”

“That spell... is that really...”

“It’s, it’s not as simple as...”

“Yes,” said Willow sharply. “It is. It’s a kid’s spell, Buffy. It _is_ as simple as that. I don’t know how you could, Giles. I just don’t know what you were thinking. I don’t understand how you could do such a thing. You’ve been... you were my mentor, you were my role model, I loved... I wanted to _be_ you for so long, and I just don’t get how you could _do_ this, and you... you make me sick!”

That last was screeched at him, and his face closed in with pain and... she wasn’t sure – she would almost have liked to say shame but he didn’t seem to be... If it had been shame, she would have thought that they could have, they could have recovered it, if he had _known_ he’d done something wrong, but... but no, it wasn’t shame, it was anger. He was breathing hard, his face colouring with fury. “I suggest you ask Xander... I told him precisely what I was doing and why, and, and although his consent was... I know he didn’t, I know it was dubious...”

She saw Buffy lose it, saw the sucker-punch slam up into Giles’ cheek, saw his head snap back and the twist with which he recovered his balance. She saw Buffy pant, and Giles freeze... and then Buffy was turning on him like a fury too, hissing viciously that she didn’t know either what he had been thinking, that she didn’t know him any more, that the Giles she loved and depended on could never have done such a thing, that she couldn’t trust him any longer and she didn’t want him to be her Watcher, her Watcher had to be somebody she could count on...

She ran down; for a moment they all stared at each other. Then Giles stepped past them, ignoring the blood welling from the split over his cheekbone, and wrenched the door open.

“Get out, both of you, and, and don’t come back until you’re prepared to apologise. Abjectly. At the moment, I can’t pretend to feel that I ever want to see either of you again.”

“Oh, that’s mutual,” Buffy assured him in a low, malevolent tone, and swept out.

Willow followed.


	23. Willow 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: nobody gets stabbed with a fork.

It was another three days before they really discussed it. She and Buffy had... not talked exactly, but at intervals one of them had said ‘I just can’t believe he...” and the other had nodded. She wondered some if Buffy... she felt sick at it all herself. It was true, what she had said to Giles: she had loved him, he had taught her so much and opened up whole new worlds for her – literally – and she didn’t know how to make _this_ world work when Giles wasn’t what she had thought. If Giles wasn’t... if Giles could do such a thing... if Giles could treat Xander like that, then what else that she had thought was one way was actually another?

Buffy was throwing herself into the slayage; apparently it was being noticed among the vamp population that this was not a healthy place to be. Willow didn’t know what Buffy was thinking, but some serious demon ass was being kicked and at least once, what Buffy started to say wasn’t “I can’t believe he...’ but ‘I can manage perfectly well without...’

Well. Yeah. They would have to manage perfectly well without, because neither of them felt any desire to go back to see him. He rang up once – so much for waiting for them to apologise – wanting to talk to her and she said coldly that _she_ had no desire to talk to _him_ , and then Buffy took the phone out of her hand and put it gently back on the cradle.

And they didn’t really want to talk _about_ him either, but eventually Xander – who was way better: his temperature had stabilised, his appetite had returned with a rush, and although he still tired quickly, he didn’t actually fall asleep in the middle of sentences any more – eventually Xander said one evening, “Hey, where’s the G-Man? He hasn’t been here since... Tuesday?”

And then when she and Buffy had looked at each other, Xander had cocked his head and said, “Hey, wassup? I... Is he mad at me about something?” and the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that Giles had _done_ something to Xander, because no _way_ should Xander sound so worried at the concept of Giles being mad at him.

“He’s not mad at you, Xan,” she said bleakly. “He’s mad. English mad. Crazy.”

Xander cocked his head sideways again and looked worried; Buffy came to sit beside him. “Will’s right. Giles is... Giles has... We fought.”

He looked uneasy. “What about?”

There wasn’t any way around this; Willow came to sit down too. “About you, Xan. About what he did to you. About...” and she indicated the small gauze pad that still covered part of his chest.

“About... me?”

“About why he did that to you,” said Buffy strongly. “Xan... he wouldn’t talk to us about why he did it, and the more he... there was something seriously hinky going on: he was wigging us both. He admitted – he actually said out loud – that you hadn't... that you hadn't said he could do it. Dubious consent, he said. He kept saying that you knew why he did it, and he wouldn’t explain, but you’d been saying you didn’t know.”

Xander frowned, searching his memory. “It was to do with the war. He said... it was to do with being able to find me if the Militia got hold of me.”

She couldn’t let that pass. “But Xan, why... how would the Militia get hold of you? You belonged,” she shuddered – it was scarier than she had thought – “to Giles. You’d got tags on, that you belonged to Giles. It was all legal and stuff, we went through it all way back at the beginning to make _sure_ it would be legal.”

Xander shook his head. “Giles said something about if he was interned as an alien, if the war came. I wouldn’t be allowed to go with him and I might end up in the army. He said... the librarian said they, the authorities, weren’t always straight about minding a slave’s tags, so if we were separated, he might not be able to claim me.”

She exchanged a glance with Buffy. “But we would know. We wouldn’t let him be interned, we’d get him out, and if you... I don’t see what difference it would make. O.K., I get it, if he got interned, you would be separated but you would still belong to him. O.K., like you say, even if you didn’t, even if they confiscated his property and that included you, what’s the point of marking you as his? If they’re not gonna pay attention to your tags, why would they pay attention to a, a, a mark on your skin? What’s the advantage – to _you_ – of a permanent identifier on your body?”

This time the exchange of glances was Xander and Buffy; she saw that they realised why this was... O.K., she admitted it, she wasn’t always the most practising of good Jewish girls, but identifiers on the skin wigged her totally. Like _totally_.

Xander shook his head. “I don’t know. He... I think he did tell me, but I was way confused, I don’t remember. I was... I was wigged because he’d said I had to leave him.”

Another exchange of glances. “Yes?” she said carefully.

Xander nodded. “He did the driving me from his door thing, so I didn’t belong to him any more.”

Buffy frowned. “You didn’t...?”

“He said I couldn’t. I couldn’t belong to him,” remembered Xander. “If he got taken away... I had to belong to somebody else.”

It was even worse than she had feared. “Xan... who were you gonna belong to if it wasn’t Giles?”

He shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

Buffy was following her train of thought. “You think Giles was gonna... what, give him away? Sell him again?”

“No!” objected Xander strongly. “He _promised_... he said he wouldn’t. Said he wouldn’t sell me, ever.”

“But he sent you away, “objected Willow in turn. “You just said so. He drove you from his door.”

They looked at each other, bewildered. Xander rubbed his chest, thoughtfully. “Will... have you looked at this? What sort of rune is it?”

She hadn't. To begin with, Giles had dressed it and she’d just assumed... she didn’t know what she had assumed. That it was something to do with the time before Xander had belonged to Giles, which was dumb, because Giles would have said something about it if it had been. Once she’d heard what it was, she had dressed it, squeamishly, because it was too difficult for Xander to manage by himself, but she hadn't really looked.

Now she did. It wasn’t easy to tell under the scabbing, but it was mostly straight-ish lines. It didn’t remind her of any of the runes she knew, but it wasn’t like that said much: however much she currently despised Giles, she wouldn’t deny that he knew a lot of stuff she didn’t. She touched it, very gently, feeling for power, and Xander jumped. Her eyes filled.

“Did that hurt?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Not hurt exactly. It’s sensitive. New skin, I suppose.”

 

They all looked at it, until Xander came over all embarrassed-guy, and insisted on buttoning up his shirt. Then they sat in silence for half an hour, thinking about who knew what, until Buffy said abruptly that she had to patrol and Willow went to make something for Xander to eat, and Xander fell unexpectedly into another nap.

They went on for another two days, half talking about the elephant in the room, until Xander broke. “I know you don’t want to, but... I think we gotta go see Giles. Ask him what this is about.”

Buffy was stubbornly against it; Willow wavered. Giles hadn't called them again, hadn't been round to see Xander, hadn't sent messages about research, about Buffy’s patrols. She was beginning to be less angry, more bewildered – and more afraid.

“Buffy... do you think... Xander's been ill ever since he came back and I know we expected that, sorta, but we didn’t expect it to go on as long as it did. Do you think maybe we missed something? That there’s something been making him sick that we don’t know about? That maybe...” and she swallowed, because she didn’t think Buffy would buy this but it had kept coming back to her as a possibility, “Maybe there’s something that affected Giles as well? Because really, he was acting... crazy, or sick or drunk or something, not like Giles at all. And he wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t making real good sense either. All that about Xan, and he wanted me to do something to do with money, play the stock markets or something, and you know how he was always against that, said it wasn’t moral and it wasn’t real smart either.”

Buffy’s face was sullen but she wasn’t arguing. Xander chipped in again. “Buff, something’s obviously wrong – very wrong – with Giles. And no matter what this thing on my chest is, I kinda owe the guy. He _did_ come for me, and he _did_ look after me, and it wasn’t easy for him. If he’s come unstuck and, I dunno, had a breakdown or something, he needs help and we gotta do something, because who else is going to? We all know, Giles hasn’t _got_ anybody else here to help him if he’s sick or, or having an attack of the crazies, or something.”

She was going to say something else herself, but Xander sorta glared at her, and she got that he wanted her to shut up. Which was cool, she supposed, because everybody knew that if you wanted Buffy to do something, you totally had to convince her that it was her own idea.

“We could... we could go round to his house,” decided Buffy, eventually. “See if he’s... if he’s O.K. Yeah, if he’s sick, somebody ought to do something about it, and like Xan says, if not us, then who? And if he’s not sick, he can talk, tell us what in the name of anything is going on. Xan, if you come too – do you think you’re fit to come too? – he can’t refuse to tell _you_ what he did and why he did it.”

That seemed fair. It didn’t stop her worrying, all the way there, although she didn’t really know what she was worrying about. Xander said he was good to go, but he looked strained and tired; she decided all on her own that if anything got wiggy between Giles and Buffy, she would just take Xan home again and leave them to work it out.

She wouldn’t have been surprised to have been refused entry to Giles’ house. It wasn’t like he usually locked his door, but the way things were now, and without the Slayer coming and going...

She _was_ surprised to find the door standing open and a man she didn’t recognise standing inside.

She was _very_ surprised to see the bookshelves empty. All the bookshelves. All empty. And a kitchen cupboard standing open, empty. And the fridge open, cleaned out, empty, turned off. Giles’ desk, cleared of everything. No notepad, no pen, no dictionary of scary monsters, no sticky notes, no paperclips. No tweed jacket hung on the back of the chair.

“Can I help you?”

The man inside came towards the door to meet them; Willow felt something big and uncomfortable in her chest, and so, she thought, did Xander, because he just blurted out, in his own inimitable manner, “Where’s Giles?”

“The previous tenant? He’s moved out.”

Xander's “What?” was overlaid with Buffy’s “Who are you?”

“Sorry, Simon Whittaker, landlord’s agent. Would you be interested in the apartment?” He obviously thought not, but saw it as his duty to try. “Part furnished, utilities included, available on short or long lease...”

“No, thanks,” said Buffy, firmly. “Where did Giles go?”

Mr Whittaker shrugged. “I don’t know the precise address. There’s a forwarding address on our file at the office.” He scrabbled for a business card. “If you need to contact him, write to him care of us; it will get sent on. Might take some time; I believe he went to England.”

“England,” said Willow faintly. Whittaker nodded.

“The gentleman was an English national, I believe.”

“When did he move out?” Xander's voice was strained; Whittaker gave him an odd look.

“About three days ago. It was very quick; he came in, cancelled the tenancy, paid the termination charge and was out within twenty-four hours. But as I said, if you need to contact him, there’s a forwarding address at the office.” He was manoeuvring them towards the door; obviously, if they weren’t going to lease the apartment, they were of no interest to him.

There was indeed an address at the office; the receptionist was pleasant but unhelpful. She really couldn’t give out the address without Mr Giles’ authorisation, which they didn’t have; if they would like to write care of the office, any communication would be forwarded in due course. It took Willow only twenty minutes at home to hack the system and establish that Giles’ forwarding address was a post office box, and rather longer to decide that the mail system in the United Kingdom wasn’t set out any way she recognised and didn’t seem to want to be broken into. Then she sat back and looked at Buffy and Xander.

“So... what do we do now?”

Buffy shook her head. She still looked sullen. “Will... he’s run away. He’s run away back to England. He must have _known_ that we were onto him – well, I guess he could hardly have missed it after what we said. But I think he was ashamed of us finding out and he’s gone home.”

She stared. “Just like that?”

Xander nodded. He looked sick.

“What are we gonna do?”

Buffy shrugged. “What is there to do? He didn’t tell us he was going, and he obviously doesn’t want us to know where he’s gone. I can’t see what we can do except let him go.”


	24. Giles,Buffy 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: kangaroo court

He managed, he thought, to keep up the façade of cool uninterest, even through the lengthy wait. It was a power play, he knew; no Council member would ever be so disorganised as to make an appointment and not be ready to keep it within ten minutes, certainly not in the Council offices. He simply smiled vaguely at the rather embarrassed secretary who had been told to ask him to wait, refused a cup of coffee, and pulled a battered paperback from the pocket of his leather jacket. He was engaged in his own power play. In California he had worn the tweed and the ties, however amusing Bu... however amusing the children in the school had found it. Here, in Council Headquarters, he wore denim, a leather jacket, boots.

It might have been a mistake. He was second guessing the Council, second and third and fourth guessing. If he had worn the suit, they might have viewed him as one of their own, and been prepared to listen. They might have seen it as him crawling back, though, promising to conform, and he wasn’t doing that. He wasn’t crawling back to them and he wasn’t crawling back to Bu... to anybody else. It seemed that _everybody_ thought he had been behaving badly, and nobody would actually listen to his explanations and judge on _facts_ rather than assumptions. Tough: his conscience was clear. He wouldn’t precisely say that he was sleeping well at night but it was rage and offence keeping him awake, not guilt.

Well, and with a sizeable side order of hurt.

And the leather jacket... if he wore that they might see that things had moved on since the 1940s, that the Slayer nowadays wasn’t what the First Slayer had been, and that a modern Watcher couldn’t afford to be what the First Watcher had been.

They might decide that he was an unreliable git and had always been an unreliable git. He couldn’t tell.

He turned a page of his book and managed not to jump when the phone buzzed.

“Mr Giles? They’re ready for you now. Second on the right.”

It didn’t look promising: tossers to a man. And woman. Quentin Travers, who was and always had been a major git. Margaret Esterhazy who was about a hundred and ten, and disapproved of everything that had happened since before the war. His father – oh, that was clever, he admitted it. He did _not_ want his father there, but the only grounds on which he could object were conflict of interest, and if he called that early on, he was admitting that he had a charge to answer _at all_. Stephen Holmforth who was Quentin’s creature. And Michael Caddick, a big rawboned man with prominent ears who looked like a farmer’s boy but had a mind like a trap. He had known Michael Caddick’s son Alex when he was in his teens, and Alex had been the same type, all big ears and big hands. He wondered vaguely if Alex was grey now, like his father.

He caught himself: he was wool-gathering, and that wouldn’t be productive. They had set the room up as a court, he noticed: a long table, a line of chairs on one side of it, and a single chair on the other for the accused. Nothing he could do about it.

Nothing he could do about any of it. Not then, not later. Later landed him in the street, his temper long since lost.

His reputation shot.

His career in tatters.

His financial status ruined.

His life...

He walked home; well, it wasn’t home. He’d taken a cheap hotel room when he had arrived, because he had long since put his belongings in storage and rented out his flat. He hadn’t known whether or not he would be welcome at his parents’ house.

He knew now.

He hadn't told them, not any of them, what he intended to do. It wouldn’t affect.. it _would_ affect them, but it wouldn’t make any of them change their minds. He rather thought they would be shocked, but they wouldn’t actually _care_.

He stopped at a corner shop, and bought a newspaper, a prepacked sandwich and a packet of crisps; he thought about buying a half bottle of Scotch, but money was going to be tight, and however much he wanted to drink himself into oblivion, he was going to need his wits about him. There was a display of cheap toys; he bought a packet of chalk.

When he reached the third brass plate, he turned inside, smiled wearily at the receptionist, and asked if it would be possible to see one of their solicitors without an appointment about some property transactions. Miss Gregory could see him in fifteen minutes, if he could wait?

He could wait.

Miss Gregory looked terrifyingly young, but she listened calmly as he explained that he needed to sell, immediately, his UK property, and that the deeds and proofs of ownership were lodged with the family solicitors. There had been, he said, regretfully, a breach in the family, and he thought it was no longer appropriate for him to be using Horringer Metcalfe, since his father still would. Could Miss Gregory obtain the documents for him, and look after the legal aspects of the sale? He produced his driving licence as proof of identity in the absence of his passport, signed various forms of authorisation, left a deposit against the eventual fee, and walked on.

It was difficult to draw a complete pentagram in the tiny hotel bathroom, and the only available container for the spell was the teacup – well, it was that or the teapot. He had bought candles from a street market; they smelled unpleasantly of cheap, artificial lily of the valley, and he hoped uneasily that they wouldn’t set off the smoke alarm. The rosemary oil had come from the same stall as the candles, and had been a bonus: he had expected to have to buy olive oil and fresh rosemary.

He worked his ring off and dropped it carelessly into the cup, dripping the rosemary oil on top. Then he knelt on the bathroom floor, surrounded by candles and chalk marks, and opened his pocket knife.

The blade sat against his palm for a solid thirty seconds, before he let out one long breath and pressed until the skin parted and a long line of blood sprang to meet the edge. He set the knife down, and turned his wrist, allowing the blood to gather slowly and then drip into the cup. He had to clear his throat twice – the smell of lily of the valley, he told himself fiercely – before he could speak.

“Buffy Summers, _abiuro_...”

He gagged on the next word, gathered himself, and whispered on, tears blinding him. Something smoky, but not smoke, roiled over the ring in the cup, and he felt a twist and snap, not of anything physical, within his chest.

He blew out the candles, got up slowly, and used toilet paper to clear the chalk marks from the tiles, and to wad against the slash in his hand. The bathroom cabinet contained an emergency kit, he was glad to discover: a little tin with a safety pin, a needle and thread, a wet wipe and a plaster, balanced on the spare shower cap. He opened the plaster; it wouldn’t stick for long but it would stop him bleeding on the towel.

Awkwardly, with his other hand, he rinsed out the cup, and then washed it until every trace of blood and oil had gone. The ring clattered in the sink, disregarded, until he cleaned that too with cheap hotel soap.

Then he lay on the bed, ignoring the sandwich he had bought, while the room darkened around him and the streetlights outside came on.

Five thousand miles away, Buffy, standing on a street corner with Willow and Xander, arguing about where to go to pick up lunch, doubled over suddenly, gasping, and when she straightened, she looked puzzled.

Willow’s face was scrunched up; Xander was fidgeting, frowning with concern. “Buff? What was that?”

She shook her head. “I... I dunno. Something... felt odd. Off. Not a pain, exactly, but like... like a shock? Like a punch to the gut, but not... not physical?”

Willow glanced sideways to make sure there was nobody within earshot. “A Slayer thing?”

“I... maybe. Yeah, maybe. A Spidey senses sort of shock, yeah. I don’t know. Whatever it was, it’s gone off... Maybe all just watch for anything weird for a while?”

Xander snorted. “We watch for weirdness all the time, Buff. Like _all_ the time.”

She smiled, and nodded, and carefully didn’t say that her first thought had been that she would have to ask Giles. Nobody could ask Giles anything: Giles had flipped, and then Giles had bailed, and they were managing just fine without Giles.

She was left none the wiser a week later when two odd communications appeared in her mailbox. One was a letter from the Council advising her that Rupert Giles was no longer her Watcher – like duh, she _knew_ that – and that if she got in touch they would get her somebody else. She thought _not._ She’d had it with Watchers. The ones who weren’t crazy were creepy. The second was a padded envelope addressed in block capitals, but she recognised the writing as Giles’. She set the envelope on her table and stared at it, unwilling to open it.

It was still there when Willow and Xander arrived; Xander spotted it at once.

“Buff? What... what is it?”

She shook her head. “Didn’t want to open it until witchy-girl had seen.”

Willow came to look, and cast a couple of cautious spells. “Whatever it is, it’s _had_ magic done on it, but there’s nothing there now. Residue, but nothing to do any harm. Safe to open.”

She hesitated, uncomfortable, unable to think what Giles would have sent her; eventually she picked up the envelope and ripped it across. The contents clattered out onto the table, bounced twice and would have hit the floor without Slayer responses.

They all looked at it: unmistakeably Giles’ signet ring, sitting on Buffy’s palm.

“Huh?” said Xander.

Yeah, that seemed to cover it. She shook her head. “Dunno. Why would he send me this? Why would... You know something? I have _so_ had it with Watchers and the Council and not knowing what’s going on. I guess Giles has been lost-weekending and he’s sent me this while he was drunk, like throwing somebody’s class ring back at them when you break up? He’ll get back in touch when he comes to his senses.”

The other two said nothing; none of them was prepared to admit, she thought, that Giles might _not_ come to his senses. “There’s slayage to be done. The Council wants to send somebody new and I don’t think so. I don’t think we need a Watcher, not with you two to watch my back. My history with Watchers who aren’t Giles isn’t real good and if Giles has gone all unreliable, I’d rather not have anybody at all.”

Willow nodded; she thought Xander looked doubtful, but he didn’t say anything. Anyway, it was true. She _couldn’t_ trust Giles, and she _didn’t_ trust anybody else, So the Scoobies were down to three and that was just gonna have to be O.K.

It _would_ be O.K.


	25. Xander 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Wesley in biker leathers.

It felt odd, slayage without Giles. He wasn’t sure that he liked it. He wasn’t actually sure that any of them liked it. Buffy didn’t talk about Giles, at all; on the other hand she was a little shorter of temper than usual, a little less predictable. Willow _did_ talk about Giles, but she talked about him as if he was dead, all full of the good old days when they did this and did that.

Xander didn’t talk about Giles, but he thought about him. He thought about him a _lot_. He went over and over in his head everything he could remember from Coblan: everything he had said to Giles, everything Giles had said to him. Everything Giles had done. Sometimes when he got out of the shower he would look in the mirror, and touch the rune on his chest, and search his memory for what Giles had said.

Nothing useful ever came to him.

Sometimes he would lie in bed, picking over the recollections again, avoiding the ones that made him blush. After a while, he tried not to do that, when he realised that it was the times he did it that he dreamed of Giles afterwards. Sometimes he dreamed of Giles; sometimes he dreamed of Master.

Almost always he woke up overheated and embarrassed.

It had been months since Giles left. To begin with, Willow had said hopefully that he would be in touch, that when everybody had calmed down, he would call them.

He didn’t.

After six weeks or so, Willow had put on her Resolve Face, and said that she was going to do a tracer spell. She’d looked sideways at Buffy, obviously half expecting an argument, but Buffy had looked away without comment. Willow had cast her spell, but without result; Xander thought when he saw her next that she had been crying, but she said nothing. He thought, too, that she had repeated it later, several times.

It was four months before Wesley came.

He was outside Buffy’s when they all arrived there; Xander completely failed to recognise him and he didn’t think he was the only one. The motorbike was big, and shiny, and totally cool and Xander lusted after it the moment he saw it; he didn’t give any attention to the man leaning on it until he heard Willow gasp. Then it took another beat for his brain to join the dots and produce a name, because that couldn’t be Wesley. Wesley had floppy hair, and a suit and looked like Giles-Lite, and was out of breath when he’d been sparring with Faith, and talked too much in a way that Xander, being all expert-guy when it came to babble, knew to be the result of nervousness and insecurity. This man, sheathed in black leather, long and lean and fit looking, propped almost insolently against the bike, couldn’t be Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, except that he was. Xander knew he was, because Willow said weakly, “Wesley? Is that you?” and Wesley nodded, which was probably a clue.

“Buffy. Willow. Xander.” Well, that was a good start: he knew who they all were and he was acknowledging them all. Xander wasn’t certain that Wesley had ever spoken to him directly before.

Buffy stared at him, mouth open, and then came to herself with a start. “Wesley... what are you doing here? Where have you been? What’s... what’s been happening?”

He smiled at her rather shyly. “I’ve been... well, I’m based in Los Angeles now, with Angel. Demon hunting. Trying to be less of a prat than I was in Sunnydale. Fighting the good fight generally.”

“It suits you,” she said frankly, eyeing him up and down. He blinked, opened his mouth and plainly couldn’t think of an answer. “But what are you doing _here_?”

He straightened up, pushing off the motorbike. “Actually, I was looking for Mr Giles. I’ve been in Germany for a month on an assignment; while I was there I took a weekend off and went home to London. There was some talk... I couldn’t quite get a grip on what was going on, but I heard that Mr Giles had been back to England and... well, I couldn’t really understand it, and I _don’t_ believe it, but the gossip was that he was in trouble. Well, the word was that he was in disgrace, he’d been fired by the Council – _again_ – and nobody could or would tell me why... except that the word being muttered was ‘embezzlement’. I couldn’t make any sense of it. I tried to look him up, but he wasn’t anywhere to be found, and I assumed that he’d come back here to you, but I’ve been to his apartment, and obviously he’s not there any more, so presumably he’s here? I was a bit worried when I came across his books.”

They exchanged glances, and Buffy stepped forward and made sure that Wesley had a reflection in the mirror of his bike. “Maybe _not_ talk about this on the sidewalk?”

Nobody invited Wesley in, reflection or no reflection, but he stepped across the threshold and carefully set his helmet down on the floor.

“Giles’ books?” prompted Willow, curiously.

Wesley frowned. “There’s a bookshop in London owned by... it used to be a Watcher family, they had several Watchers in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and then the direct line died out. The cousins know about Watching and Watchers, but the bloodline isn’t strong enough, they’ve been tested but they don’t qualify as Watchers themselves. They’re... I suppose you might say they’re support staff. They’ve got fingers in a lot of pies, and one of them is a bookshop with a second hand book exchange, and a lot of the sort of books that the general public doesn’t see. I look in every time I go past, which isn’t often now. May I sit down?”

Buffy nodded, and they all found places to sit; Wesley went on.

“I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but I spotted a couple of things I thought might be interesting, and when I picked one of them up, I recognised it. I opened it, and it had Mr Giles’ name on the flyleaf.” He looked round at them all. “Odd coincidence, I thought, and then I found four more books, two with his name in, and two I remembered from the library.

“Well, it cost me just about a month’s money and I’ll be eating bread and scrape for a good while, but I bought them. I was just curious, though: why was Mr Giles selling his books? I mean, that and the story about him being fired... Of course I have no right to, to, to...”

“Oh shit,” said Willow concisely. Xander had to agree. Wesley looked politely enquiring.

“He’s not here,” said Buffy, baldly. “We don’t know where he is. We assumed he’d... well, he bailed on us, and we took it that he was back in England.”

Wesley shook his head. “He may be, but I couldn’t find out where. I admit I didn’t try very hard; I asked a couple of questions and then I took it for granted that he was here.” He looked worried. “So... when did he go?”

“Months ago,” said Xander, uneasily.

“And what... who’s Watching for you?”

Buffy was awkwardly silent; he got it at once. “You’ve got no Watcher here?”

She shook her head. “They – the Council – told me that it wasn’t Giles any more and I should call them and they would send somebody else.”

“But you don’t want him replaced, yes, I see,” nodded Wesley, and then stilled, eyes narrowing, as they all exchanged glances again. “Or... am I missing something? I mean, not that it’s my business...”

Willow shook her hair back. “Xan... can we tell him? I mean, he’s a Watcher. He might get something that we didn’t. He might have some ideas about why... about why Giles did what he did.”

“I’m not a Watcher any more,” observed Wesley quietly. “They fired me. Said I was incompetent.” He smiled rather sourly. “I _was_ incompetent. I’m not now.”

And Xander could totally believe that, actually. He felt a twist of sympathy and, yeah, if he had to tell somebody about how totally lame and stupid he had been, and how much crap had arisen as a consequence, then Wesley, who knew something on his own account about being lame and stupid, might not be the worst possible choice, particularly not if it was this New Improved Wesley with the cool bike and the cool leathers and the admission that he had been a dork back in the library days and that it was possible to stop being one.

“Buffy? Second vote here for telling him.”

Buffy made a face. “Yeah, I guess. Wanna call for pizza first? This is gonna take some time.”

It did. Xander laid it on the line for Wesley, at least as much as he was ever going to tell anybody. There were still bits Buffy and Willow didn’t know – Review Day and Xander offering to blow Giles – although he thought that they had guessed some of it. Willow had asked once, after Giles went, what Xander had meant about not asking permission not going well for him, and Xander had wigged completely, panicked so hard that she had said hastily that he needn’t tell her. He thought she must have spoken to Buffy about it, because Buffy had never asked. He sometimes wondered what Willow thought _might_ have happened. Anyway, he wasn’t telling Wesley those bits either – he felt enough of a dumbass telling him the Cliffs Notes version. Oddly, the very first part, about Chad and Serpentine, wasn’t as totally humiliating as he had been afraid of. Not _totally_ , although he was still hot around the ears telling it.

He thought, though, that Wesley got that there was something more. Something he wasn’t telling. Wesley gave him a couple of hard looks, but he didn’t call Xander on keeping bits back. The hard looks actually reminded Xander of Giles; he could remember Giles looking at him _just_ that way when he had screwed up back in the library days.

Then Willow picked up the story and filled in the bits about her and Buffy and the Big Fight. Xander thought she was holding stuff back too, and from Wesley’s expression, so did he.

He still didn’t say anything; he was frowning, though, obviously worried about Giles, and about the fact that they didn’t know where Giles was. He leaned back in his chair, turning his coffee cup round and round and thinking.

“And you heard nothing after you quarrelled?”

Willow shook her head. “He called once, said he needed to talk to me – to me, particularly. But I was... we were all still mad at him. I wouldn't talk to him, and next we knew, he was gone. He still owes me twenty bucks,” she added irrelevantly.

Wesley joined the dots. “Presumably the fact that he was asking you to scry the stock market has something to do with the embezzlement charge. He needed money, he needed a lot of money for something, and it sounds as if he got it from the Council and they found out.”

Xander screwed up his nose. “What did he need... I mean, that would have to be big money, yeah? They don’t call it embezzlement when you pocket the coffee club funds or the petty cash box.”

“No,” agreed Wesley. “But I would hazard a guess that retrieving you from Coblan had put him in a financial spot.”

Yeah. Seemed likely, and Xander felt guilty about it. He hadn't ever really thought about where Giles had got the money to buy him _from_. 

“Only other contact was when he sent me his ring,” said Buffy, almost as an aside. Wesley looked up.

“His ring?”

She nodded and got up; the ring had knocked about for a week on the table and then Xander, unable to stand seeing it, although he didn’t know why, had dropped it in a takeout tub and put it on a kitchen shelf. Buffy retrieved it, and held it out to Wesley, who took it, and whose face changed suddenly. He pushed out of his chair, took a step towards Buffy, face hard, and spoke a harsh sounding spell, one hand sweeping through the air in front of her. There were red sparks when his hand passed her solar plexus and she jumped; both Willow and Xander gave out startled squeaks.

“Wow, what was that?” That was Willow, always chasing the new spell.

Wesley was staring at Buffy. “I don’t think I’ve been understanding you,” he said harshly. “When you said you had no Watcher now, I thought you meant that you and he were just at outs, not speaking, not that you had actually abjured him.”

Buffy gawped at him. “Say what?”

Xander agreed. “What’s abjured?”

Willow looked shocked, but she waved her hands vaguely in the air. “Denied? Renounced? Something like that?”

He still didn’t get it, but Wesley added tightly “Divorced? With prejudice?”

Buffy made a sound of total shock. “I didn’t! I didn’t do anything! Yeah, we had a fight, and I said some things... but he said some things... Yeah, O.K., maybe I said I didn’t want him as my Watcher, but it was a _fight_ , people say things in fights, don’t they?”

“But you abjured him.” He’d never heard Wesley sound so judgmental.

“I don’t even know what that is!”

He stared. “Haven’t you _read_ the _Slayer’s Handbook_?”

Buffy looked guilty. “Not exactly all of... No.”

Wesley frowned, his expression morphing to one of bewilderment, and he spoke the spell again, with the same sweeping gesture. Buffy stood still, obviously recognising it as some sort of, of diagnostic device, and looking increasingly worried as Wesley fell back and dropped into his chair, looking sick.

“He abjured _you?_ ”

Willow leaned forward. “Wesley... this sounds real bad but we don’t know what it’s about?”

Wesley passed one shaking hand over his face, suddenly reverting to the library Wesley from the confident motorcycle guy. “Mr Giles obviously thought that your relationship was... This is serious. I’ve only ever heard of two Watchers in the whole history of the Council who abjured their Slayers. One did it because his Slayer was totally mad – crazy – and she killed his family. The other, it was the Watcher who was mad, and he thought his Slayer was Lilith the demon. Once a Slayer abjured her Watcher because he raped her when she was powerless during her Cruciamentum.”

They were silent, shocked. Wesley added, pointlessly, “It’s not something to be done lightly. This is past a quarrel, Buffy. This is... I don’t know what this is.”

Willow’s eyes were filling with tears. “We thought Giles was being all weird-guy, not... not our Giles. We thought he might be having a breakdown. He bailed on us, and he’d been behaving all wiggy before that and asking for odd stuff, and... Wesley, you gotta help us; you gotta help _him_. If he’s abjured Buffy, if it’s like you say, then he _must_ have been sick because...” she couldn’t go on, but Wesley was nodding.

“Because he would _never_ have left Buffy unless there was something seriously wrong.”

He turned back to Xander. “Let’s have that story again, with more detail. There’s got to be a clue in there. We just have to find it.”


	26. Xander 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Wesley in a rage.

They went through it all, line by line, it felt like – and now Xander was beginning to feel guilty about the bits he wasn’t telling them, but not guilty enough to _tell_ them. He convinced himself that they weren’t relevant. They got all the way to the rune on his chest, and this time, Wesley asked to see it. Well, they’d got a Watcher – an ex-Watcher – on their team now, so it made sense to use him. Xander unbuttoned his shirt without arguing.

Wesley peered at his chest, frowning; after a moment he raised one hand, and caught himself. “May I? I’m just wondering if there’s an actual spell imbued in it.”

“I couldn’t feel anything – well, nothing more than Xander himself. Concentrated Xander. Like, essence of Xander. There was a magical buzz there, sure, but nothing... nothing that wasn’t Xander. That isn’t making real good sense, is it?” Willow ground to a halt, and Wesley looked over at her.

“I’d expect you to be more aware than I am: my magical abilities are very limited. But if it’s something between two men, which is what you’ve been hinting at – you have, haven’t you? You’ve been implying that Mr Giles intended to bind Xander to him permanently – then it might be something that another man would perceive and a woman wouldn’t.” He returned his gaze to Xander, waiting politely for permission and when Xander nodded, he ran a single fingertip over the raised skin. Then he shook his head. “No, I don’t feel anything out of the ordinary either, although I agree with you about, about a concentration of Xander himself. It feels as if... I think that if I touched that blind, I would know it was Xander. I can’t imagine what that is, I must say, but...” He went through his pockets, producing a small notebook and a pen, and carefully sketched the rune, marking approximate dimensions and the precise location on Xander's chest. Then he pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“I’ll try some research of my own. I have a friend here who’ll let me crash on his floor for a couple of nights – no, nobody you would know and probably better if you don’t, all things considered – and I’ve got some contacts nowadays that I didn’t have before. I’ll try some of the younger Council members, too; I went through training with a couple of people who might be prepared to fill me in on the scandal. You know, Xander, I don’t like this at all, but perhaps not for the reasons you dislike it.” His mouth twisted wryly. “I’m well aware that you all thought I was an idiot, and Mr Giles certainly thought so, and with cause, but if I learned anything at all in Sunnydale, it’s that Mr Giles rarely did _anything_ without good reasons. I have to say, even if you’re right and he’s flipped completely, I would expect there to be logic in what he did. Warped logic, maybe, but logic. I still think that if we can find the end of the string, it will all just unravel.”

Xander hoped so. He’d been blanking how unhappy he was about Giles’ absence all the way to Wesley’s arrival; now, at last, he could admit to it. He wanted to _know_ what Giles had thought he was doing; he wanted to get it sorted out and maybe get the Big Guy back with them, and... and to stop feeling that everybody’s relationships were on the fritz and it was, deep down, his fault.

He went on wanting that until Wesley came back and he discovered the extent of his relationship fritzing and that he could fritz a relationship with Wesley that he hadn't even realised he _had._

He remembered Wesley-being-mad. He’d seen it before, back in the library days: it had been amusing. It wasn’t amusing now. It reminded him, painfully, of Giles-being-mad: Annoyed Giles had always been a bit of a joke, with the clucking thing and the accent and the not getting what they were saying and so on. Really Mad Giles they had seen once or twice and it hadn't been a joke at all. Wesley was incandescent with rage. He arrived the next day, banging on the door, pushing through it the moment Willow opened it, and glaring round at all of them. Then he lit into Buffy.

“You _stupid_ , spiteful, selfish, _disloyal_ little bitch! God, I should have bloody known, shouldn’t I? I remember from your schooldays that you were always tiresomely convinced that you knew best about _everything_ , and nobody could tell you anything you didn’t already know. You haven’t changed at all, have you? Haven’t grown up, haven’t matured. It’s still all got to be about you and everybody else just has to put up with it!”

Xander thought that Buffy was simply too startled to speak: being ticked off by Wesley was a bit like being attacked by a fluffy rabbit – you could get hurt but you totally weren’t expecting to. Then Wesley turned on Willow. “And you’re no better! You always said that Mr Giles taught you a lot but he doesn’t seem to have got any of the important stuff into your head, has he? Like how to do proper serious research – or how not to jump to conclusions – or how to deal with evidence that doesn’t back up your conclusions.”

He swung round, and Xander had a split second to think, “oh, my turn” before Wesley was giving him both barrels too. “What’s your middle name, Harris? Loser? Lackwit? Something beginning with L, right?”

Huh? Buffy was selfish and Willow was incompetent and... Xander had a middle name beginning with L? Making sense? Not so much. Xander heard his own voice saying “LaVelle” rather blankly, and it didn’t look like he was the only with an advanced case of jaw-drop.

“Well, I suppose there’s probably less of the blame due to you than to the girls since you were in shock and undergoing withdrawal and the rest of it, but for fuck’s sake, Harris, you said yourself that Mr Giles was kind to you, that he looked after you above and beyond the call of duty and that he had said something about what he was doing to you in the yard but you couldn’t remember what it was. So when it all hit the fan later, did it not occur to you that if Mr Giles tried to tell you and you couldn’t remember it, or couldn’t understand it, it might be something important? It might be a good idea for you to mention it, and follow it up, and _find out_ what it was about? Possibly go as far as to _ask?_ ”

Actually, now that Wesley mentioned it, it did, but Xander continued to goggle at him, as did both Buffy and Willow. Wesley gave a derisive snort and flung himself into a chair.

“All right. Let me tell you what I found out in one day. Which, in case you haven’t managed to work it out, means that _you_ could have found it out in a day. Xander was registered as a slave. We all know that, do we? He had a tag around his neck with a registration number on, like a bloody puppy. Right. Well, the important point about that is that the registration _cannot be broken_.” He looked at Xander. “On Coblan, you will always, no matter what, be registered as a slave. No ifs, no buts, no possibility of any changes. You’re a slave until you die. If Mr Giles hadn't gone to fetch you, you would have changed hands, there or in whatever other dimensions they pleased to send you to, as a slave, until you died. Or until you were put down, not just like a puppy but like an _unwanted_ puppy.”

Willow flinched visibly; Buffy fidgeted; Xander cringed.

“You could be killed, or sold or exchanged or given away. Those are the only options. There is no way for a slave to gain his freedom. No manumission. No way to buy yourself out and be free again. And the Coblan slavers walk more or less at will through the dimensions: if you ran away on Coblan and got somewhere else – _including here_ – you stay on their books as a slave. You can run but they’ll chase you. The risk is if you’re caught, picked up, by somebody other than your owner. An escaped slave is up for grabs. In English history, a serf who could live uncaptured in a borough town for a year and a day earned his freedom by it; Coblan has the same sort of thing in reverse. I’m not sure how exactly they calculate it – I didn’t get the astronomy and the year length but I think it’s the equivalent of about three months. You stay on the run for that long and... guess what?”

They couldn’t guess. Wesley smiled at them without warmth. “You’re prey. Ownership lapses but slave status doesn’t. You’re a piece of lost property and anybody can pick you up and keep you, like picking up a penny in the street. So if Mr Giles had brought you back here, Harris, and this Chad had seen you, he could basically have picked you up a second time and sold you, a second time. Or anybody else who knew how to read the registration and how to use your Bond-Word – and you would have been able to do absolutely fuck all about it.”

Willow whimpered; Xander swallowed hard; Buffy shifted in her seat.

“The only way I can see to get round this – and I didn’t have time to go into it in great detail but you said yourself that Mr Giles was searching ownership law – is if somebody lays permanent claim to you. A permanent slave mark on a slave means that slave can’t be sold, or given away. They used it mostly on Old Faithful: the nurse, the trusted body slave, whatever. The one you were given as a baby who looked after you, went with you when you married, looked after your children. Once you have a permanent mark on you, Harris, then if you’re stolen, or lost, there are wards to prevent anybody except your owner or his heirs from taking you. You can be traced and you can’t be kept.”

He stopped to draw breath, and Willow took a shuddering breath.

“I get it,” she whispered in a choked voice. “Giles thought that he might be separated from Xander, but if he laid claim to Xander, then no matter what, nobody else could. So Xander would be safe even if Giles was in prison, or... or whatever.”

Xander jumped as Wesley exploded. “No! You _don’t_ bloody get it! You _still_ don’t bloody get it!” He scrabbled for his notebook, in which he had drawn the rune the day before. He looked over at Xander. “I’ll draw it for you. I suppose you can’t read it backwards in the mirror or upside down. You have _marginally_ less to be ashamed of than the other two but there isn’t much in it.”

He felt Buffy take an offended breath and kicked her on the ankle. Yeah, sure, Wesley was being insulting, but he seemed to know something and they needed to find out what it was. Meanwhile Wesley was drawing something and holding it out to them.

 

“What’s that?”

One by one they shook their heads.

“I’ll give you a clue, then,” said Wesley bitterly. “If Mr Giles had _done_ what you accused him of, Xander might have that on his chest rather than what he does have.”

“It’s another rune, then,” said Buffy, “but Wesley, we don’t know what alphabet it’s in, or anything so we don’t know what it means.”

Xander stared hard at it, and it resolved itself slowly in his mind, like one of those magic eye pictures. “It’s... not a rune. It’s letters. Look, that’s an R and the curve...”

“Is a G,” picked up Willow, “and an E. It’s... oh, I see, it’s a monogram! It’s Giles’ monogram! Not a rune?”

“Not a rune,” mocked Wesley. “So what has Xander got on his chest?”

They all stared at him; he froze, unwilling to open his shirt again, for some reason he didn’t quite get. Wesley held out his notebook and Willow frowned at it. “A L H,” she said quietly. “It’s Xander's own monogram, yeah? But... I still don’t see... I mean, yeah, O.K., if Giles had put his initials on Xander, then Giles would have claimed Xander and Xander couldn’t be lost again. But if Giles put _Xander's_ initials on Xander... how does that work?”

Wesley’s sigh conveyed their complete lack of any smarts at all.

“Do you _really_ still not see? Mr Giles bought Xander, and then he gave Xander back to Xander. He did it so that it couldn’t be over-ridden – so that _nobody_ could ever own Xander except Xander – and then he proved it, by giving Xander the gift receipt.”


	27. Xander 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: quotations from Oliver Cromwell.

Xander just sat there, looking at Wesley, and wondering what the enormous lump inside his chest might be.

It felt like guilt.

He rather thought that he wasn’t the only one feeling that way, given Buffy’s stricken expression, and the way Willow kept opening and closing her mouth without saying anything. But Wesley, it seemed, hadn't finished. He rounded on Willow.

“And you said you cast a revelatory spell on Mr Giles, didn’t you? Only you didn’t like the result. I didn’t think about that until later... what did you cast and why did you think it showed that Mr Giles was doing something improper? Because I’m not seeing any other evidence, and I’m wondering if whatever it was, you did it right. It’s plain enough that you’re not as damn clever as you think you are.”

“I did do it right,” Willow assured him, obviously struggling to subdue her offence. “It was only a little simple thing, a schoolyard spell.”

His expression hardened. “Oh dear God. Please, _please_ , tell me you didn’t cast _Quam Sentire_?”

From her guilty look, she obviously had.

“Sweet mercy. Don’t you know _anything_?”

Xander thought he ought to intervene before Wesley exploded and Willow dissolved into tears. “What’s _Quam Sentire_?”

Wesley cast him an irritated look. “It’s what she said: it’s a playground spell. It’s one of the first ones children who are being taught magic learn. You don’t learn it from your tutor, you learn it from some other kid, you play with it for six months, you move on. It shows you how somebody feels about somebody else. It’s the magical equivalent of pushing your mate and goading him about some girl because he lent her a pencil or gave her a sweet or tacked her plait to the desk; it’s, it’s... it’s _Willow and Xander sitting in a tree_... You cast it on somebody and you ask how they feel about somebody else; they show a temporary aura. The stronger the colour of the aura, the stronger the person’s feelings. Bright colours are good feelings, dark colours are bad feelings. It’s an idiotic little spell, almost impossible to fail to cast. I expect you could do it.”

“So... what’s wrong with the way Willow did it?”

Wesley glared at her; she had retreated to sit with Buffy, and she flinched from his accusing glance.

“Ask her. Ask her why she thought it meant Mr Giles had bad intentions towards you.”

He didn’t have to ask; Willow cried out at once. “Because his aura was all glowy gold, very strong, so... but there was this horrible black stuff all through it, like a spider-web. And that’s bad feeling, and Giles was showing bad feelings about Xander!”

Wesley sneered. “So, about Xander, Willow... _Quam Sentire?_ ” He swept his hands upward, and then flicked his fingers at her; they could all see the bright green aura form around her.

They could all – including Willow – also see the throbbing network of ugly brown and black lines lacing it. Willow bit off a squeal.

“I don’t suppose Mr Giles ever told you not to use a spell if you didn’t know exactly how it worked? Oh, he _did_? Amazing. And you follow his instructions so well.” He drew his hands down and the aura vanished.

“O.K., what?” asked Xander, shakily. Wesley turned his head, and gave him the sort of chilly smile that Wesley himself used to get from Giles.

“The nice bright green bit? That’s Willow loving you. Looks like she does, Xander. Congratulations.”

He stopped, and Buffy was brave enough to ask. “And the scuzzy looking veins?”

“Ah yes. Those. Those are the things she doesn’t like. Those are the times Xander pulled her hair, or teased her, or cracked a joke against her, or promised to meet her at the mall and turned up late. Those are the times she thought he was tiresome, or annoying, or... what’s that word you use? Oh yes – lame. Those are the times they quarrelled, or she compared him with somebody else and he didn’t come out looking good. Those, basically, are the bits of a relationship that you simply get over and don’t usually talk about. They’re the irritating little habits – the constant split infinitives, the leaving the top off the toothpaste, the insistence on having bread sauce at Christmas despite the fact that nobody else likes it. There’s a reason that this is a playground spell: it’s only very young children who see their relationships as ‘I like you’ or ‘I don’t like you’ with no overlap. By the time they’re nine or ten, they’re getting the idea of ‘I like you sometimes’ or ‘I like you a bit’.”

He had to ask. “Will... did Giles... when you did the spell on Giles, did it look like that?”

She was crying, but Buffy looked at him and nodded. “The webbing was black and... do the colours matter, Wesley? It was real bright but it was yellow, not green like Willow’s. Is that important?”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

“So... all it showed was Giles liked me... _but_. And... well, we already knew that, I guess. He liked me well enough to come after me, but... it’s not hard to work out that he’ll have been ticked that he had to. He _told_ me that I was doing something dumb, and I blew him off. He’s gotta have been pissed about that. And that’s on top of that he doesn’t like it when, when I call him G-Man, he doesn’t like it when I tease him about the tweed, he thinks I’m an idiot, he gets pissed when I flake on the research, he was _really, really_ pissed at me over the whole love spell thing back at school.”

“And given what you said about the sort of place Serpentine is,” said Wesley, wearily, “if Mr Giles thought about you at all that way, it would show dark. Controlled violence, violence with express consent, but violence nonetheless. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. Nobody’s perfect and the people who love us allow for that.”

“Yeah. Except that we didn’t.”

“No,” agreed Wesley, acidly. “You didn’t. You didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt at the time, you didn’t – any of you – consider the possibility of there being another explanation to the first one that popped into your heads. Oliver Cromwell knew about that: he said ‘I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible you may be mistaken.’ But oh, no, you couldn’t be mistaken, could you, you knew best.”

Xander's stomach tightened on another recollection. “He... when he did it, when he did the brand, he cried. I’d forgotten, but he cried. He did it real quick and it hurt... you have no idea. It hurt so much. I screamed, but he cried.”

Oddly, it wasn’t Willow who whimpered at that picture; it was Buffy; she looked as if she was remembering something.

“But why didn’t he _tell_ us?” That was Willow; Xander gulped.

“He promised me he wouldn’t.”

They were all looking at him; he swallowed hard again. “He knew I was... he knew the whole thing gave me the complete wiggins, and he promised he wouldn’t tell you anything I didn’t want him to.”

“Oh,” said Willow faintly. “And he hadn't seen you, so he didn’t know what you had told us and what you wanted not to. Or, or what you hadn't told us because you didn’t know. He kept telling us... he kept saying that you would tell us anything we ought to know and if you didn’t want to tell us then we had no right to know... But you didn’t know why he’d done it either. And _he_ didn’t know that.”

“And we didn’t ask.” Xander felt sick. “Or try to find out, after he left.”

Wesley snarled again.

“You could have found out what I did probably much more easily. All right, so Mr Giles took a month to discover the slavery stuff, but he was searching without knowing that what he was looking for even existed. You had the advantage of knowing that he _had_ found something so there was something to find. I got half the data by using my old Watcher contacts and you don’t have those, but Buffy is the _Slayer_. If she had called the Council directly and said that her Watcher was missing, or that he was ill and behaving oddly, they could have told you the finance side straight off – and would have.”

They exchanged miserable glances, and Xander gave in. “Look, Wesley, I don’t get much but I do get that we’re the bad guys here, we screwed up big time, we’re losers, we’re ignorant, we’re generally inadequate, we have cooties and we probably smell bad. I totally get that I at least don’t have an IQ above ankle level, but I’m sorry, I’m not keeping up. _What_ about the finance?”

Wesley folded up his notebook, and slipped it back into his pocket. “We were right about what Mr Giles wanted money for. Apparently he put in a request to the Council bursar for a, a sizeable sum of money before he went tallyhooting through the dimensions looking for your lost lamb. They refused his request, so he took the money anyway.”

Buffy gave a snort of laughter. “Go Giles!”

Wesley glared at her. She shrugged. “Wesley, he didn’t tell us. We didn’t know about it.”

Wesley frowned. “I imagine he didn’t tell you because ahead of time there wasn’t much you could do. You don’t... Well, I _presume_ you don’t have access to large sums of money.”

Buffy gestured mutely at their surroundings. Wesley nodded. “I also presume that Mr Giles couldn’t predict how long his rescue bid would take and what it was likely to cost. The bursar viewed it as embezzlement, because he had no real means – and according to the Council generally, no intention – to pay it back. That, presumably, is why he wanted to speak to Willow. He needed her – urgently – to play the markets and find the money for him.”

Willow gave a little squeak of unhappiness, and found herself on the sharp end of Wesley’s glower. “Perhaps if you _had_ done that, Mr Giles wouldn’t be on the wrong end of a big pecuniary claim.”  

“How big?” whispered Willow.

“I don’t know what it is in dollars, I can’t do the conversion in my head. The exchange rate between this dimension and the other one apparently wasn’t in our favour. The Council is looking for repayment of something in the region of three-quarters of a million sterling – from a man with no job.” He glanced round at them and added sarcastically, “In case you don’t know, the numbers will be bigger in dollars.”

“Shit,” whispered Xander. “I... Wesley, I never even thought about it. About the money. . I never thought that I... that Giles...”

“No,” agreed Wesley, icily. “You didn’t. None of you thought. You _don’t_ think, apparently.” He got up. “I wish I could say that it’s been nice seeing you all, but it hasn’t.”

“No, but Wesley,” objected Buffy, “where are you going?”

He raised one eyebrow, looking disturbingly like Giles.

“Back to L.A., of course. I’m going to do some more research and see if I can find where Mr Giles is.”

“Yeah,” said Xander, blankly. He swallowed; it hadn't been a good evening and he at least was feeling like he wanted to go away and hide in a corner, preferably never coming out again, but he had to ask. “Will you tell us when you find him?”

The stare was utterly incredulous and hardly needed Wesley’s pronouncement of “Hell, no!” Xander winced. Wesley spelled it out.

“At the moment my sympathies are entirely with Mr Giles. If he hasn’t told you where he is, that presumably is because he doesn’t want you to know, and I don’t for a moment blame him.” He looked round. “You do realise that I think there’s a reasonable chance that he’s dead?”

Willow burst into tears again; Buffy cried out; Xander felt his stomach heave. Wesley’s expression was stony. “He’s been fired by the Council; there’s no help for him there. When he abjured the Slayer, he lost all the protections and wards conferred by being a Watcher. If he’s still alive at all, he’ll be living on whatever magical skills he has in his own right. We know he has them, but you’d better believe it: there will be major kudos to whatever sort of demon can kill a Watcher, even if he’s an ex-Watcher on a blacklist. He’ll have a _huge_ target painted on his back.” He looked at the floor for a moment and then back up at them. “It occurs to me that Mr Giles went to a lot of trouble to make Xander safe, to ensure that if Xander went missing again, you would be able to find him. I grant you that his method was unpleasant but it certainly looks to me as if it would have worked. It _also_ occurs to me that if _Mr Giles_ had gone missing – and if he had been interned, I think that would have been almost certain – then until they moved him to a dimension without the damaging effect on his magical abilities that Coblan had – which they would have had no reason to do – there would have been no means at all of you finding _him_. The safest thing for Mr Giles to have done would have been to try to bring Xander home regardless of the state of his memory. Then Mr Giles would have been safe and Xander would have been physically safe even if he never regained his memory. And if Xander hadn't made the jump, if he’d got lost between the dimensions, he wouldn’t ever have known what he was missing, so he’d have been no worse off than when he was first taken. But he didn’t do that, did he, Xander? He kept you safe in the face of all the risks, when the risks were likely to fall – _have_ fallen – not on you, but on him.”

Xander had nothing to say, and for once, neither did Buffy or Willow. Wesley smiled, without humour. “Maybe some of his choices weren’t the greatest, but it doesn’t sound to me as if he had much by way of backup. Sometimes you just have to decide and hope for the best, live with the consequences.”

He opened the door. “I hope he is still _living_ with the consequences.”  


	28. Giles 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: at last! It's the horse!

It was common enough for him to crest the hill behind hikers, and to hear them gasp at the beauty of the panorama; he usually smiled wryly and said nothing. His admiration of the view tended to depend on the weight of whatever he was carrying, and whether it had rained on his walk back from the town. The hikers seemed to enjoy the slow pull up the long slope out of the town, presumably because they anticipated the reward at the top; Giles, taking the walk by necessity rather than for pleasure at least once on most days, was less impressed.

He looked down at the cottage from the gate at the roadside. It looked like what it was: an old single storey whitewashed farm, sitting in a right angle half way to the water’s edge. The part parallel to the water was the house: the stable door opened into his living room, with the kitchen on the left. On the right, a narrow hall led past his bathroom into his bedroom. A second stable door opened on the other side of the living room, onto the track to the pebbled shore.

The angled part of the building had been the original outhouses, some of them complete, some with no front wall. Inside one of those was his Land Rover; another held his wood store. Off to one side was what he sometimes suspected to be the only flat bit of land within five miles; the field was reasonably large and he had it divided into three uneven pieces. Two were much of a size; one was Ivo’s pasture and the other he had marked out as a manège, with the letters painted on flat pieces of wood. He had it in mind that next year he would swap those over. The third piece held the muck heap, and beyond that, a rather unpromising vegetable patch.

He set off down the hill. Ivo saw him from the field and trotted over to greet him; he set down his bags and rubbed the black nose affectionately. “I’ve got nothing, old man. There are peppermints in the shopping bags but I don’t know which one. I’ll give you some later.” He cast a careful eye over his horse: the rug was filthy again because the damn horse would insist on rolling even when he had it on. It seemed dry, though, and Ivo would be warm enough until the light went. He still needed to come in last thing at night, but maybe in another week or two...

He left the horse with one more pat, and lifted his bags with a sigh. It was a long walk from the town if he had anything to carry.

The living room was cold; he put away his shopping, and then set about lighting the fire in the stove. When the first of the decent sized logs caught, he pushed himself wearily to his feet, and crossed to retrieve the morning’s dirty cup from his desk, which was very large, heavy, scratched and battered, clearly old and much used, and the laptop on one end looked out of place – or maybe that was just because he always felt it to be so.

He filled the kettle before looking at the pile of work, and shuffling it into order. Two pieces of translation work for museums. There wasn’t enough of that for his liking. Six more pieces of translation work for various publishers. There was a decent amount of that but it all came with desperately short deadlines and it didn’t pay well. He needed to do some planning for the GCSE French and A Level German private tuition sessions next week. That should probably be done first, in case he needed to arrange photocopying the next time he went to town. The museum work was the most interesting and the least urgent; he would save it for himself as a reward.

He looked without enthusiasm at the instructions for the rest of the translations. He would have to work off the computer screen and he disliked that, but he was always conscious that printer cartridges were expensive. He still preferred to write his translations in longhand before he transferred them to the computer, and even out in the country, the postman brought him enough junk mail to give him a regular supply of scrap paper. He smoothed out a reversed credit card application, and set to work.

Hw worked steadily while the sky outside deepened to blue; when he got up to turn on the lights, he drew the curtains and carefully added two more logs to the fire. It was quite dark outside when he felt the wards trip. Something was approaching down the track; from the specific wards, he could tell that it was a demon of some description. The umbrella stand behind the door had been a find in a car boot sale; he slid the short sword and the crossbow out of it, belting on the former and loading the latter. He turned off the light to avoid silhouetting himself at the door; the glow of the stove would still show, he knew, but it couldn’t be helped. He _thought_ that the danger was at the front, so he stood with closed eyes for a slow count of ten at the back door, ensuring that his night vision would be the best it could be when he eased the door open and slipped into the shadows outside.

Ivo was snorting, telling him that whatever was there was indeed still at the front; he worked his way around the end of the house quietly, every sense at full stretch, every ounce of magical ability in use. It had been three months before the magical exhaustion he had incurred on Coblan had eased, and he had been able to set up proper wards. The triggers told him that his intruder was a vampire, and it was between the trees lining the path.

It touched his inner wards, the ones designed not to warn him but to protect him, and a shower of blue sparks showed; the vampire yelped. From the way it moved, it was a fledge. He began to raise the crossbow, and it smelled him.

“Watcher? W-watcher? Sir?”

The tone was undiluted terror; he was sufficiently startled to ease his finger on the crossbow’s trigger. He couldn’t remember _any_ vampire ever calling him _sir_.

“What do you want?”

He must have been closer than the fledge had anticipated; there was a most un-vampiric squeak of fear and the voice said hastily, “Wesley Wyndham-Pryce sent me, Watcher! Not meaning you any harm!”

_Wesley?_

“Prove it.”

“He says that if the alternative involves scrubbing Balthazar’s hard-to-reach areas, you would prefer to be killed straight away.”

Well. Not the identification code he might have expected but yes, that sounded as if it came from Wesley.

“Come out where I can see you.”

“Um... not without you promising you’re not going to stake me.”

It was a pleasant change to hear a vampire with a Dundee accent, he thought irrelevantly.

“I promise I won’t stake you _yet_. How long _yet_ is depends on why you’re here.”

A very new fledge crept nervously into the middle of the path. “Message from Mr Wyndham-Pryce.”

And since when did a vampire use an honorific about Wesley? “Go on.”

“It’s an orb. It’s in my pocket, so don’t get twitchy, pal, right?”

“I’m not your pal. Move slowly.”

The orb was retrieved from a pocket, and placed slowly – glacially slowly – on the ground.

“Step back.”

That was plainly a welcome order; the fledge scuttled backward, stopping at his snapped command. He summoned power, threw out one hand and exploded the orb.

A shaky image of Wesley – _Wesley?_ In _biker_ leathers? – rose from the wreckage, turned until it traced his essence, and spoke.

“Hello, Mr Giles. I, ah, I’ve seen your former colleagues. They’re all in good health, and the, ah, the work is still being correctly carried out, from all I can see. I believe they’re... I did some investigation into your actions regarding the Gorch demon, and I think I understand what you did and why. I hope I’m right. I believe that I am. Your colleagues were rather upset about it, about having misjudged you. This is really just to warn you that they’re looking for you. I traced you via Mortimer and Anstey – Anstey knows Melissa Wethercombe who is, I think, a remote cousin of yours? – and although your colleagues don’t know them, or at least I’m not aware that they do, I expect they’ll have contacts of their own.

“Anyway, all I was meaning to say was that, um, I’m not helping them with looking for you because I assumed that you would prefer me not to. Um, I’m shipping a box to you today. It has some of my – some of your books in it. I bought them. Look, this is embarrassing but... I can’t afford to... just to give you back the books. Money’s tight here too. But there’s a note inside the box with my email address and phone number, and please will you get in touch? I, I know the children think, your colleagues think that you don’t do email but Anstey said that Melissa said that you _could_. If you would help me occasionally with the research, you can keep the books at your place. I’m short of space and anyway, you’ll be quicker at finding things than I would, because you’re familiar with the books.”

The image looked nervously at its feet and then back up; “I’m working with Angel, demon hunting. I’m doing good work, Mr Giles; I’m making a difference.”

 _Lucky you_ , thought Giles. _I’m not._

“Please, Mr Giles, if you haven’t already, please don’t kill the vampire who brings you this message. Angel pulled some strings to get me a messenger because he, because I told him he owed you, but it wasn’t easy, and if you kill it... well, please don’t. Oh, and in case it wasn’t clear, I won’t tell anybody where you are without your permission. The vampires know, obviously, but Angel’s put the word out among the demon world that it’s nobody’s business but yours and not to be talked about. I won’t tell the... your colleagues. I don’t think they’re pleased with me, actually; I was rather angry with them. Um, I don’t really know how to wind this up.” The image wavered, and then looked up with a deprecating grin. “Yours sincerely, W Wyndham-Pryce?”

It collapsed in on itself, and vanished with a pop. He looked past the cracked orb at the young vampire, which shifted its feet awkwardly.  

“Right. Thank you. You’ll be going now, I expect.” He saw relief on its ridged face; it began to back away. It nipped at him to let it go unharmed, but he was too vulnerable to risk antagonising Angel and the sorts of contacts Angel would have. “You may feed – once – in the town provided you don’t turn or kill. If you do, I’ll know, and you won’t live long enough to regret it. If Angelus doesn’t get you, I will.”

It nodded at him and fled; he looked after it for a moment, and then went to open the field gate and take Ivo inside. In the stable, he changed Ivo’s turnout rug for a indoor blanket, refilled the water bucket, and hung up a hay net. Ivo nudged at him, and with a grin he produced a peppermint from his pocket. “Greedy sod. _I_ don’t get sweets, you realise. I only buy them for you.” He patted the arched neck and turned away. He would have to reset his wards, not just the ones that warned him of trespassers and danger, but the ones that disguised his house from view. If the Scoobies were seriously looking for him, they would find him.

He wasn’t going to make it easy for them.


	29. Xander 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Light blue touchpaper...

He could still hear Wesley’s footsteps outside when he got up, reaching for his jacket; he could feel his expression shift to determination.

“Buffy, need you to call the old guys at the Council and ask them where Giles is.”

She blinked and nodded; Willow was already booting the computer. “Yeah. He’s got to be found, and they probably won’t tell you straight off, but it’s the obvious place to start. I’ll see what else I can find here. Xan, what are you gonna do?”

“Pack. Find my passport. Look up flights to Watcher-land for me, Will. Giles is almost certainly in England and if he’s in England, I need to be in England too. Seems to me I’ve got some real heavy grovelling to do.”

Buffy nodded. “Three tickets, Willow. This is team grovelling. Synchronised grovelling.” She picked up the telephone. “What time is it in England? Am I about to call them in the middle of the night?”

She put the call on speaker as soon as it connected, identifying herself formally, not as Buffy Summers, but as the Slayer, and demanding the Head of the Council. The voice at the other end was startled; she waited only half a minute before a rounded English accent greeted her cautiously.

“Where is my Watcher?”

There was a beat of silence. “Miss Summers, since you didn’t contact us about a new Watcher...”

“Not a new Watcher. _My_ Watcher. Where is Rupert Giles?”

“Rupert Giles is no longer a member of the Watchers’ Council.”

“Well, duh. I _know_ that. Where is he?”

“Forgive me, Miss Summers, but why do you want to know?”

“Because he’s _my Watcher_ , and he isn’t here and I don’t know where he is!”

“He isn’t your Watcher...”

“He is the only Watcher I am ever going to accept. Get that into your heads. Giles is _my_ Watcher.”

“Our... we are aware that he feels differently.”

“Look, we’ve had... we have our differences, O.K.? But he’s my Watcher. He’s the only Watcher I want.”

They could all hear the shrug. “Rupert Giles is no longer a member of the Watchers’ Council; it is therefore not possible for him to be the Slayer’s Watcher.”

Xander hadn't known that Buffy could sound so cold. “I didn’t ask you that. I didn’t ask you _what_ he is. I asked you _where_ he is.”

He had rarely heard anybody sound quite so patronising, either. “Miss Summers, you may not be aware of it, but Rupert Giles has abjured you. That means...”

“I _know_ what it means.” Her voice was low and tightly controlled. _“Where is Giles?”_ She carried the battle to the enemy’s camp. “I know that when he came to you and told you that we, your Slayer and your active Watcher, needed help, that we needed money, you let us down. I also know that you didn’t contact _me_ , to tell me that you weren’t going to lend him the money.”

Xander suddenly realised that Willow was writing little notes and pushing them in front of Buffy, giving her ammunition for the fight, and he nodded: Buffy was implying that she had known all along what was going on, and had agreed to it.

“He... it was a ridiculous thing for him to have asked. He had no right to take the money unapproved, and for such a reason. We couldn’t possibly approve such a transfer. I appreciate that your friend... you must understand that the Watchers’ Council has always taken heavy casualties in its work with the Slayer, and we accept that as the cost of what we do. There is always collateral damage and we could not agree to Rupert’s demand that we fund his, his rescue attempt. The likelihood of success was statistically too low and the possible benefit too small.”

Xander flinched. The term ‘collateral damage’ meant him, naked, striped, on his knees, in a collar. Well, now he knew what _he_ was worth in the eyes of the Council.

“I simply don’t believe that he didn’t tell you that you would be repaid straight away.”

“Miss Summers, we haven’t been repaid _now_.”

They all winced; Buffy rallied. “And that’s because you didn’t _tell_ me that there was a problem. I’ll have it for you...” she glanced at Willow, who was scribbling notes again, “I’ll have some of it by the end of the week. Early next week latest. If you’d only _told_ me... Somebody needs to email me a copy of the account,” and now she was reading Willow’s bullet points, “and let me know precisely how much it is. I’ll arrange the refund. It might take several instalments, I’ll need to make special arrangements. This could have been done _months_ ago if anybody had bothered to _tell_ me. Has Giles made any of the repayments? Yes? Then I’ll need a list of those as well. Well, because he shouldn’t have been asked to make any payments _at all_ , so as soon as you’ve been paid – will you accept dollars or do you want us to make the currency translation at this end? That might take another couple of days. Say Wednesday next week – as soon as you’ve been paid, you’ll need to ensure that whatever _he_ paid you is refunded to him. And believe me, I _will_ be following that up.” She covered the phone and mouthed “Why?” at Willow; Xander wondered too. Why not pay the Council whatever was still due, and then pay Giles back – because he was _so_ going to pay Giles back, although he had _no_ idea how – afterwards.

Willow mouthed back “Get Giles’ bank details – he’s moved his bank, I tried to trace it before,” and Buffy nodded.

“So that will be with you in a few days. Meanwhile, _where is my Watcher?_ ”

“I – ah, that is to say, we don’t actually know.”

“Has he _been_ there?”

“He came in for a meeting, yes.”

“And you fired him.”

“Yes.”

“Is he still in England?”

“It is our opinion that he is still in the United Kingdom, or possibly the Republic of Ireland. We, ah, there is a block on his passport.”

Willow was making faces and scribbling.

“Why?”

The voice sounded startled. “Miss Summers, surely you realise that we aren’t going to allow an ex-Watcher, who has had his employment terminated for gross misconduct, to leave the country? It is still possible, although not as easy as it once was, to get into the Republic of Ireland un-noticed, but this is an island, and Ireland is an island. We are watching the borders. There is no question of Rupert Giles being able to go abroad while he still owes us most of half a million pounds.”

They all winced. “He doesn’t owe it to you,” said Buffy shortly. “I do. And I’d have arranged payment a long time ago if anybody had told me what was going on. It’s my debt, not his.”

It was Xander's, and the size of it was making his stomach knot. Giles had been prepared to spend that much for Xander? And afterwards, Giles hadn't just dumped it _back_ on Xander? This was gonna require gold medal standard grovelling.

The voice turned cunning. “Well, if, as you imply, everything between you and your Watcher was so wonderful, why did he abjure you?”

Willow dropped her pen and Buffy, for a split second, panicked. Still, she wasn’t the Slayer for nothing: she dealt well with the unexpected. “That’s between him and me. It can’t be new that Watchers and Slayers fall out and argue sometimes. It’s nobody’s business except ours.”

“The Slayer works for the Council. It’s our business if you’re coming back and getting aggressive with us simply because you work for us and Rupert Giles doesn’t.”

When they went around that for the third time, with Buffy insisting that the Council worked for the Slayer, and not the other way around, it became obvious that the argument wasn’t going anywhere useful. Buffy broke it off.

“Send me the details. Email them to me, like _right now_. Send me details of what Giles has paid you back and when and how, and when you saw him last and all the places any of you think he might be. I want that within an hour. Then I suggest that you start doing what will keep the Slayer happy, and _look_ for him.”

He started to argue and she put the phone down; it looked satisfying. Then she glowered at Willow and Xander.

“Go pack, guys.”

It wasn’t quite as quick as that. First of all they went through the documents that the Council, rather to their surprise, emailed over; Buffy said sourly that they obviously wanted their money real bad. Then Willow spent another day doing something on the computer, squeaking at intervals about how unbelievably illegal it was, which ended up with the first slab of a simply huge number of dollars being transferred to the Council bank account, and some minor headlines about small unexpected blips in the stock market. After that she did something with passwords, and emerged after a twelve hour hacking session with a headache, a smug expression and an address in Scotland.

 _Then_ they went to pack.

He managed to persuade Buffy that she didn’t want to drive a car in Watcherland. He had enough trouble himself with the rental car; they hadn't had an automatic, it was stick shift or nothing, and although he remembered to drive on the left, he had to think very deliberately about which direction he needed to look at junctions. The distances were much smaller than he had somehow imagined, but once they got to Scotland, there seemed to be not quite enough signposts, and they got lost approximately once an hour. It didn’t help that although they had a road map, nothing seemed to be pronounced the way they expected, so asking for directions was something of a lottery. They had passed a house called Fasnacloich and read the name; then they had looked at each other and driven on without speaking.

Xander was queasy with nerves by the time Willow, armed with the map, said quietly, “It’s here,” but he found a wide grass verge with no apparent ditch and pulled the car to a halt. They climbed out, looking around at the trees, the long slope down to the water, and the complete lack of anywhere anyone might live. After twenty minutes of casting up and down grassy tracks that faded away to rabbit runs, they climbed back into the car, and Xander, with a certain amount of profanity, turned it back towards the town. It wasn’t much of a town – barely more than a village, with a wide crossroads decorated with shops, an odd spiky turreted thing that turned out to be a war memorial, and a small park around the two bridges over the fast-flowing river. A few side streets were filled with narrow stone houses and it had a serious parking problem.

Willow took her turn with the local accent.

“It _is_ where we were,” she said, when she came back. “Three miles that way, on the left.”

“There was nothing there,” objected Buffy; Willow fastened her seat belt and shrugged. Xander turned the key in the ignition.

“Further on, maybe?”

They tried again; eventually Willow ran a quick tracer spell, and Xander stopped the car on the same verge as before.

“It should be _here_. But there’s nothing, there’s not even a gate.”

Xander looked over the wall, which looked like a disorganised pile of rocks, but which, when he put his hand on it, was solid and rooted; he felt like an intruder. He fought against the desire to get back into the car and just go. Giles didn’t want them here, wherever here was, and he knew they still weren’t all chasing the same thing. Buffy and Willow wanted Giles back, wanted everything to be as it was.

He... didn’t. He didn’t know quite what he wanted but it started with Giles, for once – he could admit now that it hadn't happened often – with Giles getting what _Giles_ wanted.

He looked down the hill at the water; something moved on a strip of shingle just offshore. “Hey, what’s that?”

Willow came to stand beside him. “What?”

He shook his head. “There was something in the water. Big dog, maybe?” He looked again, but whatever it was had vanished.

Willow reached into her pocket for the candy bar she had bought when asking directions, and Xander felt a sudden blast of homesickness. Even the candy was different... but he took his share, and hitched his hip on the wall, and looked again at the water.

“Xan?”

Willow and Buffy were poring over the map; he moved to join them, leaned over to look, put his hand on the wall...

And fell.

He landed on his knees, bewildered, and looked down to find that his leg appeared to be pressed _through_ a rock. He gave a squawk of dismay, and Willow answered him with a yelp of triumph and a sudden powerful word.

The rock melted away; there was a wide gateway, a long grass track and at the bottom, a whitewashed right-angled house.


	30. Xander 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Defcon 1

Giles was waiting for them at the bottom of the hill, his shoulders resting against the closed door of his house. He didn’t even pretend that he wasn’t expecting them. He looked different, Xander thought: his hair was cut militarily short, and looked much greyer than it had been, even in only a few months. No spectacles. Giles with no spectacles? He had lost weight and looked older, and somehow harder. Buffy ran the last few yards toward the house, her hands outstretched.

“Giles! Oh, Giles!”

She slammed into the wards and bounced off them; Willow and Xander, following more slowly, felt the sticky throb of magic preventing them reaching the building.

“Giles? Can... can we come in?”

“No.” The word fell into the space between them like a stone into water; Xander felt himself rocked by the ripples. There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Willow scrabbled at her throat, pulling out her necklace and showing him the Wiccan symbol.

“Giles? We can all touch it, see?” She tugged it sideways and first Buffy and then Xander set a finger on the symbol. Giles smiled, and Xander shivered.

“You misunderstand.” Giles’ voice was cool and pleasant. “I don’t believe that you’re demons. I simply don’t want you here. This is my house and you are not welcome.”

“Giles, we’re sorry, all of us.” That was Buffy. “We didn’t understand. We didn’t get it. We came to apologise, as abjectly as you like.”

Giles shrugged, dismissively. “What was that phrase you used to use? Oh yes: and this affects me how?”

Willow blinked in confusion; Buffy scowled; Xander winced. They all looked at Giles; he gazed blankly back. Willow rallied. “Giles, we want to explain. You gotta listen to us.”

“How lovely,” said Giles smoothly. “You want me to do – you say I _have_ to do – for you what you refused to do for me.”

Buffy jumped in again. “Please, Giles, we need to talk. Can’t we come in?”

“No.”

“But _Giles_!”

“I do not want you in my house.”

Her tone changed to a whine; Xander could have told her _that_ wouldn’t work.

“But Giles! We’re apologising!”

“I heard you, but I think that unfortunately you’re confusing me with someone who gives a damn.”

Xander couldn’t bear it. “Giles, we screwed up. We know we did. We came all this way to apologise because we know we screwed up and we wanted to... to...” He ran down in the face of Giles’ complete lack of interest.

“Mr Harris, sometimes an apology _doesn’t_ make everything right. The way you behaved has had consequences. Those consequences are _real_ and they are independent of how you may feel. They don’t vanish simply because you say that you’re sorry.”

He shut up; Giles looked at Buffy. “I am not a Watcher any more, Miss Summers. Specifically, I am not _your_ Watcher. I resigned from that particular rôle at the point at which I had to accept that you didn’t trust me. I thought I had proved my loyalty to you when... with Angelus. I should have realised when you formed a relationship with him afterwards that you didn’t feel the same loyalty to me. I could have understood it, I think, if you had said after your Cruciamentum that you didn’t trust me. I admit, that was a betrayal on my part, albeit one that I tried to correct and one that cost me heavily. I thought, at that stage, that you and I understood each other. I’ve learned that I didn’t understand you at all.”

His gaze tracked round to Willow. “I thought the same of you, Miss Rosenberg. I thought we understood each other. I certainly thought that you understood me but it’s equally obvious that you didn’t. I knew, of course, that you had tendencies to the power addict, and quite plainly you believed the same of me and assigned your own selfish motives to me. The fact that you could use a spell on me, against my will, when anybody who knew anything about it could see that you had no idea how it worked or what it did... I’m afraid that if you are capable of that, then I am not willing to spend time with you. At least this time it was physically harmless, but next time it might not be. I am not prepared to put my own safety at risk simply because you fancy yourself as Ayesha when you behave more like Gagool.”

O.K., Xander wasn’t following the detail but he was wincing at the big picture, and Willow looked stricken. Giles turned slightly to face him, and he braced himself mentally for the blast.

“You’re lazy, Mr Harris, always have been. You’re perfectly capable of doing your own work but it’s been easier to let somebody else pick it up, hasn’t it? First Miss Rosenberg with your school work, and then me. You always said that you had signed up for the whole ‘slayage gig’” – and Xander could hear the quotation marks as Giles’ voice dripped contempt –  “that you weren’t drafted, you were a volunteer. But you weren’t whole-hearted about it, were you? You never wanted to do the dull bits, like the research. You wanted me to do that and then despised me when I did. You were never prepared to admit that quite possibly I knew more about anything than you did. You got yourself into this bloody mess, and you got me into it too. Guess what, Mr Harris? It may not be perfectly polite but actually I _am_ prepared to say ‘I told you so’. Because I did: I told you that your boyfriend was no good, and I was right. I told you that going to Serpentine was a bad idea and I was right. I told you that you didn’t know what you were doing _and I was right._

“You told me, Mr Harris, you told me that you had a safety measure, a date buddy. You suggested that it be me, and when I expressed that I was comfortable with it being Miss Rosenberg, you lied to both of us, by omission, I grant you, by choosing neither of us and leaving each of us to understand that it was the other. You lied to me, and I gave you the benefit of the doubt; then when you simply didn’t understand what I had done, you refused to grant me the same grace.

“Well,” and Giles glanced from one of them to another before continuing in the same pleasant, unemotional voice, “now I have had as much as I care to take of your – all of your – insolence and name calling. It is indicative of your lack of respect for me both as a Watcher and as an individual. I’ve been fooling myself for years, it seemed, that you viewed me as your friend when it’s obvious now that you didn’t, that I wasn’t, that in fact I was nothing more than a tool for you all to use. It was obvious, Miss Summers, when you devoted all your time to Mr Harris’s nursing, without ever even _asking_ whether or not I was suffering any ill effects from my time in Coblan. It was obvious, Miss Rosenberg, when I came to you for help and you didn’t even remember my request through the course of an afternoon. It was obvious, Mr Harris, when the care I took of you in Coblan, the effort I expended making sure that you were safe physically _and_ emotionally, was thrown back into my face accompanied by accusations of abuse. I don’t know if you actually accused me yourself, but you certainly allowed these two to do it.

“You were using me, all of you, and I don’t feel inclined to be used any longer. Miss Summers’ history with her Watchers is not good: Merrick is dead, I probably ought to be dead, Wesley bolted rather than try to be of any more use to her, and I never thought to say it, but Wesley Wyndham-Pryce was the smartest of us. If you want a new Watcher, Miss Summers, go back to the Council and ask for one, or have you done that already? I don’t recommend that you ask for Wesley: it sounds as if he’s doing something productive in Los Angeles, and in any event, if I've understood him correctly, he doesn’t want the job.”

“He doesn’t,” said Buffy in a choked voice. “He... we... He said some stuff.”

“He held a Come To Jesus meeting and told us pretty much where we got off,” confirmed Xander. “He told us everything. What you had done, why you did it...” He swallowed hard. “What it cost.”

“Giles, we didn’t know... we didn’t understand. We didn’t know about the money and the Council. We didn’t know what saving Xander had cost, about them refusing to pay...” Buffy tailed away. Giles smiled coldly.

“The money is the least of it,” he said evenly. “Yes, it was expensive. The exchange rate was diabolical. Harris, even with the chalk still on his feet and only half trained, was a fashion item, and priced accordingly.”

 _Chalk?_ thought Xander; _what?_

“Mind you, the expensive part as far as money went was the house. Do you still watch those programmes about celebrity houses, Miss Rosenberg? Think a three month rental in Beverley Hills, and I lost the deposit because I didn’t give notice. Then there were the bribes to find out where Mr Harris was and to acquire the introductions. Bribes on Coblan to auctioneers and slave dealers, bribes here to the Serpentine accountant. I owe you twenty dollars for a taxi fare, Miss Rosenberg, don’t I? You can whistle for it. I’m afraid you come a long, _long_ way down my list of creditors. But after all, that’s only money. The real cost? The real cost was what it did to my life.”

Xander had never heard Giles sound so bitter.

“You would be so proud of me, Miss Rosenberg: I’ve learned to use the computer. I had to: I’ve sold my books. Whatever happens, if I should win the lottery and repay everybody who has a financial claim on me, twenty years’ careful collection of irreplaceable books has gone down the drain. I’ve got five of them back on loan, thanks to Wesley’s charity, but the rest are gone for good.

“I sold my car. I have a clapped out Land Rover now, thirty years old, and I hardly use it because I can’t afford to put petrol in it.”

Xander winced. He’d squawked at British gas prices the first time they’d had to stop and refuel the hire car.

“Still, it’s just a vehicle, isn’t it? Replaceable. What else did I sell? Oh, I sold my share of a racehorse. You didn’t know I owned a racehorse, did you? Not all of one, only a leg or so. Five per cent of a not very promising Irish gelding. Never likely to make millions for me, so probably no great loss. When the lottery money comes in, I can buy back into another consortium, I expect.

“I used to own a flat in London; I leased it out when I left England. I’ve sold it now. It wasn’t a good time to sell property, and I had to sell with a sitting tenant which drove the price down. I doubt if I’ll ever be able to afford to buy London property again.

“The one I do regret is the fishing. I sold half a mile of the best salmon fishing in Ireland. It was a gift from my godfather when I was recognised as a Watcher; it had been in his family for generations, but he had no children and he gave it to me. The rental income while I've been abroad was my fun money, the money I used to buy books. I got a good price for it, I’ll say that, but I’ll never be able to get it back. My godfather’s dead now, which is probably just as well; he would have been hugely hurt and disappointed to find that I’d sold it. I don’t know whether he would have understood the reason or not. He was a Watcher, so probably not.”

Xander fidgeted, and dug his elbow into Buffy’s side when he thought she was going to speak. They’d silenced Giles too many times. If the Big Guy wanted to tell them things, then Xander at least was gonna stand there with his mouth closed and his ears open until Giles had finished.

“What else did it cost? Tell me, Mr Harris, did they tell you – no, they can’t have done, I suppose, because I didn’t tell _them_ very much about Serpentine. Do you remember Ryan? You saw him with me. I liked him, and I rather think he liked me. I could have formed a relationship with him, based on something other than simply using him for information. I would have done: if I’d found nothing suspicious, if I hadn't had to go chasing across the dimensions to find you, I would have gone back to him. I suppose now I’ll never see him again, and that’s assuming that nobody picked up that he helped me look for you; if they did grasp that, he’s probably dead too. I’m going to hope that he’s not, because I warned him about the dangers of the club; he listened to me and he said he intended to act on the warning. He had met me precisely twice, and he trusted me enough for that.”

They all winced. The ‘unlike you’ didn’t need to be said aloud.

“And then there was Karl. Karl actually provided the information about your _dear_ boyfriend. Karl didn’t know very much, it has to be said, but he made me pay dearly for what he did know. I beat half the information out of him, and fucked the other half. Oh, I’m _sorry_ , Miss Rosenberg: are you shocked? I didn’t mention it before. I merely said that I found out, I didn’t say how. I didn’t want to do it, but I didn’t see any other means of finding out what we needed to know. So yes, I whored myself. I hope you all think it was worth it. At the moment, I’m not sure that I do.

“Then there was my career. I _stole_ from the Watchers’ Council, or that’s how they see it. I did ask ahead of time but when they said no, I took the money anyway. They weren’t pleased: they fired me, but I suppose I should be grateful that they didn’t prosecute, in the interests of keeping the Council secret. I’ve got to repay the money and the interest charges are crippling. Of course, it’s not as if there are very many outlets for the skills I have: no job, no reference and nowhere to take a reference even if I had one. So it’s not just this particular job that I’ve lost, it’s my entire career. I can’t even beg Wesley Wyndham-Pryce for a job demon hunting with him, because the Council is preventing me from leaving the country. I’m old to pick up a new line of business, but I’m learning. I have no alternative.

“I also have no pension. One of the few good things about being a Watcher is the benefits. I’ve lost mine – health insurance, private dental care, pension. I’m old enough to be worried about what I’m going to live on in ten years time.

“And _then_ there was my family. My father is still a big player in the Council... well, you knew that. He has disinherited me, I’m told. Of course these days that’s more for show than anything else; I never expected him to leave me very much, there was no obligation on him to do it, but my mother...” His voice cracked and Buffy took a step forward but he glared at her and went on. “My mother died two months ago. I was notified by my father’s solicitor, a week after the funeral.”

Willow was crying openly.

“That’s what it cost. My honour. My reputation. My pride. My family. My self-respect, my career. My future.”

He looked coldly at Xander.

“Do you think it was worth it? Do you think _you_ are worth it?”

If Giles was asking, then actually, no, he _so_ didn’t.

“Giles...” Willow was choking, and for once, Giles wasn’t trying to comfort her. That was... actually, that was _shocking_. “Giles, we didn’t _understand_. We thought that you had... When we saw Xander's chest... You gotta realise, Giles, a _brand_... and thinking that _you_ had done it...”

He shrugged. “Yes, I did it. I put a brand on him. It was necessary.”

“And you didn’t tell us about it.” Buffy was trying to keep her voice even.

“Why would I tell _you?_ You weren’t involved. There was a _lot_ I didn’t tell you. I thought that it was Mr Harris’s story to tell, or not tell. But if you think I should have told...”

Xander felt a cold trickle of perspiration. There was so much he _didn’t_ want told, but that vamp was staked. The only possibility of fixing this was telling everything. He opened his mouth, but Giles steamrollered him.

“Did you know that Mr Harris’s chosen means of keeping me happy was to offer me a blowjob?”

And O.K., Xander had been kinda hoping that they would start on something smaller and let him get used to the idea, rather than plunging straight in with that one.

“I turned him down, more than once.” Giles’ mouth twisted with bitter amusement. “Perhaps that was a mistake. If I’d said yes, I could at least have sold the story about getting the most expensive blowjob in the world. Did you know that I beat him both into my house and out of it? I had him naked at my front door, twice, and I beat him, both times. Did he tell you that?”

“You had to,” said Xander hoarsely. “It was the law, I knew that. And you didn’t _beat_ me. Old Master _beat_ me, hard enough to make me scream. You gave me four taps because it was the law.”

Giles sneered. “Oh well, if you’re going to be picky... Did you tell them that you got lost in town on Review Day, and scared me half to death? You were lost because you didn’t listen, _as usual_ , and you didn’t do as you were told, _as usual_ , and I was bloody _terrified_ that this time I wouldn’t be able to find you. Did you tell them that? That you were upset about it, and when I got you home I beat you? Did you tell them that I beat you _because_ you were upset, rather than for anything you had done?”

“I – that’s not what happened!”

“It’s _precisely_ what happened. You got lost, I retrieved you, you were upset. And when I realised that you were upset, I beat you. Can you deny any one of those statements?”

“No, but...” He gathered himself, in the face of the girls’ dismay. “Giles, any one of those facts is true, but that’s not the whole story.”

“Oh, are we troubling about the ‘whole story’ now?” The tone was contemptuous and they all flinched, but Xander had a grip on what was happening.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are, because we got here when we didn’t let you tell the whole story, and it hasn’t worked real well for any of us. Willow, the whole story was that I got lost because I didn’t _listen_ when I was warned, and because I didn’t do as I was told, just like Giles says, and I got picked up by the police, and Giles came for me. _Again_. And yeah, I was upset, I was real upset, I was expecting to be _sold_ again, because that was what _happened_ to a bad slave, yeah? It didn’t even occur to me that Ma... that Giles might be scared too, I was just so... Giles promised he wouldn’t sell me and I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t. I freaked out because I just knew he would send me away. He hadn't punished me, so he _had_ to mean to sell me. And he got that, he got that I was terrified past where I could believe him. Past where I could even _hear_ him. He didn’t _beat_ me,” and he gulped because this was real embarrassing, but nobody actually died of embarrassment, did they? “He spanked me. And I was cool with that, because if he’d punished me, it meant that he wasn’t gonna sell me, yeah?”

Actually, he would have preferred _not_ to see their expressions, because Buffy looked vaguely horrified and Willow looked... jealous?

He turned back to Giles. “Look, I know it’s not much, but I’m sorry. I’m real sorry. You... yeah. What you said, it’s true. I screwed up, and you warned me, and I didn’t listen, and it was all my fault. And then you came for me and you rescued me and afterwards... Giles, it wasn’t just that I didn’t understand. I didn’t _remember_. You... I guess you must have told me before you did it – I know you told me _something_ – but I was so... you said I couldn’t go on belonging to you and I was wigging so badly about that, that I didn’t take in anything much else you said. And yeah, I guess you didn’t know that, and you were trying not to tell the others anything in case I wanted them not to know. But... _I_ didn’t know. I shoulda known – we _all_ shoulda known – that you simply wouldn’t do anything like that without... Wesley said that even _he_ knew that you didn’t do anything without a good reason, and if Wesley knew, then we have no excuse for not knowing.” He ran out of gas, and mumbled stupidly, “I get why you’re pissed.”

“Oh, I am _beyond_ ‘pissed’,” Giles assured him pleasantly. “I am so far beyond ‘pissed’ that ‘pissed’ doesn’t even appear on the horizon. By the way, you’re in Britain now. Pissed means drunk. I am pissed _off_. Do you really think you get it? Do you truly understand how angry I was that I was accused of not telling anybody that you had been abused, when I was trying to ensure that you needn’t tell anybody that if you didn’t want to? Do you have the first _idea_ how offensive I found it that nobody would _shut up_ long enough to let me complete a sentence? That I wasn’t _allowed_ to defend myself because those two self-righteous bints were engaged in shrieking at me like harpies? That I should even have _needed_ to defend myself, that the people I thought I could trust with my life _automatically_ assumed that I was guilty? That any of you could _ever_ believe that I would behave so badly to Xander?”

It was the first time since they had got there that Giles had called Xander by his first name, and it _hurt_. It hurt savagely.

“I suppose you do seem to have some understanding that I found it annoying that you screwed up – and that you lied deliberately about the phone buddy thing. But I am beyond insulted that after all the times one of you did something stupid, like messing with a spell you didn’t understand, or something vicious like blackmailing a girl into casting a spell for you, or something cowardly like running away and leaving everyone else wondering if you were dead, that after all those times when I listened to your explanations of what you had done and why, and I believed you, and I forgave you, and I fixed whatever mess you had caused, you assumed the worst of me, and you gave me no chance to explain. Yes, Mr Harris, I _do_ understand that you’re sorry. I just don’t care.

“I was faced with two distinct risks. One was that you were not recovering your memory, so we were going to be stuck in Coblan indefinitely, and if you didn’t have an ownership mark on you, you were going to be taken away from me. The other was that your slave status was permanent and irrevocable and once you _were_ taken away from me, I had no means to get you back. I dealt with that the only way I could. I’m sorry you don’t like it. I didn’t like it much myself. You made mistakes, and you’ve paid for them, and in this case at least, I laid the cost on you. But whatever pain I inflicted on you, I’ve paid for too, and I will go on paying now for the rest of my life. You can hardly expect me to...” He stopped, and looked away, his mouth working.

Buffy tried to rally.“Giles... Giles, I can’t do this, the Slaying, I can’t do it without you.”

He shrugged indifferently. “Changed your tune a bit, haven’t you? But you always did. You never valued, you never _understood_ the covenant between Watcher and Slayer. You didn’t want a Watcher telling you what to do, you wanted to run around at parties with teenage boys. Then you saw where that led, and I was back in favour. You didn’t want a Watcher telling you that a relationship with a souled vampire was _unbelievably_ stupid, and then my girlfriend was dead, and I was nearly dead, because you couldn’t keep your knees together, and you ran away. You condescended to come back, and oh look! You could have the souled vampire again, which was _still_ stupid – even _Xander_ told you that it was stupid – but we all had to be terribly sympathetic when he left you, because obviously, nobody in the whole world, or certainly nobody who _mattered_ , had ever lost someone they loved before, had they? You didn’t want a Watcher telling you what to do, you had new friends, you had Riley. And then you found that Riley’s friends weren’t altogether _your_ friends, and round we all went again. You can’t do it without me? _I_ can’t do it _with_ you. I don’t trust you. I don’t trust you to act in the best interests of _anybody_ except yourself. I don’t trust you not to run off after the next thing that _you_ want without any consideration of what it might cost anybody else and in the full expectation that when it goes wrong – and that’s when, not if, because you have _unbelievably_ bad judgment – when it goes wrong, old Giles will clean up after you. You can’t do it without me? I suggest that you _learn_ , because I _won’t_ do it with _you_.”

Willow was crying again; Xander wasn’t far off it himself. Buffy scrabbled at her throat, pulling free the chain which lived around her neck, and on which she had, since they left home, been wearing Giles’ signet ring. She held it out to him, wordlessly; he looked blankly at it, and then at her, and retreated into his house, his house from which they were excluded, closing the door quietly behind him. She stood there still, one hand outstretched, until Xander took the chain and ring from her fingers and one after another they turned away.


	31. Xander 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: deep-fried battered haggis and a Cunning Plan

It was something of an effort to get the girls back to the car: both of them talked at once, not that he could make much of it, and he got a sudden flash of what Giles had said about neither one of them letting him finish a sentence, and another twist of sympathy. They were upset – hell, they were _all_ upset, including him, and Giles, too, but Xander, upset or not, was conscious that there was no point in arguing with Giles. No point to it, and they had no right to it either.

In the car, Buffy was inclined to be argumentative and aggressive about the whole thing – they must, Giles had to, and so on – while Willow was weepy, and self-accusatory, and they had wronged Giles so much and he had every right to be angry. When they went around it for the third time, Buffy and Xander twisted in the front seats and Willow hunched in the rear, Xander backed off and applied himself. Giles had said that he was lazy, and it was true, and he was gonna do something about it. First thing was, he was gonna think for himself and stop letting Willow do it for him.

“Listen guys: yeah, we gotta problem. We gotta big problem. I think we can agree that we screwed up – we wouldn’t _be_ here if we weren’t agreed on that one. And I sorta think we screwed up again in just turning up here expecting to be able to say ‘oh, sorry, Giles’ and be met prodigal son style. O.K., Buffy, no, we’re not quitting yet. But Willow’s right: Giles has every right to be pissed at... to be pissed off at us. Is it pissed off at or pissed off with? Buff, we didn’t think this through. I... I think the problem isn’t necessarily what we thought Giles did, although... although the way he said it, I can’t believe we ever _did_ think anything so... that’s not the point. The problem is that _we_ thought it. The Scoobies. Giles was quite right: we didn’t... we always said the Scoobies was the four of us, plus whoever else – you know, Oz or Cordelia or... or whoever. But it was the four of us. And then the wheels came off and the Scoobies was the three of us and not Giles, and if we could think that, then yeah, we haven’t been thinking of him as totally one of us. And that’s just wrong in _so_ many ways.”

He started the engine and began his profanity-heavy turn manoeuvre. Buffy reached for her seat belt. “Where are we going?”

“Espresso Pump. Or whatever the local place is called. There’s gotta be one, right? Need a big shot of caffeine and something to eat while we make plans.”

They went back to parking-problem town.

There was no Espresso Pump. Not anything like it. There was something called the Copper Kettle Tea Room, but the way everybody inside turned and stared at them when they stopped at the window, it didn’t strike them as a good place to have a confidential discussion. Anyway, Xander could smell something that reminded him that they had missed lunch and that Scotland didn’t seem to be a contender on the Warmest Places in Europe front. He wasn’t sure what to make of the frontage, with a blue and white sign pronouncing it to be Mac’s Plaice, but he was reasonably certain that what it was selling was high salt, high fat, high carbohydrate and highly desirable. The girls were unadventurous, selecting fish and chicken respectively, but hell, he was _abroad_ and ready to live dangerously. “So... what exactly is _that?_ ”

Willow declared it not to be kosher – not that she was always as particular, and anyway, if Xander had understood what the woman behind the counter said, which wasn’t definite, she was wrong – and Buffy made ‘ew’ noises once it was explained to her, but Xander tasted it carefully, and then fell into the paper package with enthusiasm. Deep fried battered haggis was his new friend. They walked as far as the little park, waving fries – chips, they were in the UK, these were chips – in emphasis as they argued, and ending up sitting on a bench overlooking the river.

“O.K.,” said Willow, who had come back much more to herself with the application of food. “What do we do?”

“Money first,” said Buffy, who had also, from the look of it, been thinking. “I get that Giles is way mad at us, and we’ve screwed him over, and he’s not interested in how we feel about it, so we gotta start with the small stuff, yeah? Fix the detail. Some of it,” and she faltered, “we really can’t fix.”

Yeah, like Giles’ mother.

“But some of it we can and we’re gonna. So... what can we fix?”

Willow licked her fingers. “I need to get some more time on the markets. It’s not like the amounts are big enough to start a run or anything: they sound big to us but they’re not really, not when you think what happens every day. Still, if we’re not to be seen, I need to be real discreet. So the first thing is paying off the rest of what’s owed to the Council.”

Buffy nodded. “What about some of the other things? Giles’ car?”

Xander shook his head. “Can’t. His car wasn’t here – well, I guess it wasn’t? He must have sold his car before he bailed on us, and he wouldn’t have brought it home anyway, but we don’t actually know if he had a car here as well. And we can’t just decide to get him the same again. Might not be what he wanted.”

“Too many variables,” agreed Willow, sadly. “What else?”

“The racehorse,” said Xander, slowly. They looked at each other.

“Wouldn’t even know where to begin,” admitted Willow. “I mean, I suppose we could find the same horse, find out which one was his but...”

“Too difficult,” agreed Buffy. “The... I didn’t understand that about fishing?”

Xander wasn’t certain that he did either, but, “Remember yesterday when we stopped for lunch, there was a big poster facing the car? It was something about auctioning the fishing rights of a stretch of some river with an unpronounceable name. Sounds like you can sell just the fishing. Maybe like selling mining rights without selling the land? Can we do anything about that?”

Willow frowned. “Maybe. Dunno. Depends on whether there’s any central record of intangible rights. I can look, I guess. And... what do we do? Try to buy it back?”

“Throw money at it,” said Buffy, definitely. “Keep playing the markets, Willow. Make us enough to make it impossible for them not to sell. And Giles’ London apartment, too.”

Something niggled at Xander's conscience. “Guys... I sorta want to do this too, I want Willow to make us millions and then to start tracking down Giles’ horse and his car and his fishing and his house and whatever, give him everything because it’s our fault he lost stuff, but... We know he doesn’t approve of using witchy powers to push at money. And we’ve just been reamed out, all of us, for thinking we always knew best.”

From their expressions, he had hit a nerve. Willow looked uneasy. “He said before... before I didn’t do it, that one of the reasons not to is that it doesn’t always end well. He was hoping we’d get away with it just the once – which I guess was to pay the Council but...”

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “If we’d done it then,” and Xander smiled a little, because it would have been Willow, not all of them, but they were all in it now, “he wouldn’t have had to sell his horse and his fish and his books. So we’re not really talking about any _more_ money than we already needed.”

“I know, but it’s not the same, is it? I mean, the detail isn’t. And I can see Giles being O.K. with doing it to pay the Council – but I can’t... I gotta say, I _totally_ get that it’s not fair, but I still can’t see Giles being O.K. with doing it to pay Giles. And... yeah, there’s the thing about how many times can we do it without it all going wrong?”

They were all silent for a while. Then Buffy shifted. “Yeah. O.K. But he _was_ O.K. with doing it once. So we... well, Willow’s already done one hit, to shut the Council up while we found out what was going on. Once more. But a big once more.” She looked across at Willow. “Will, if we find somewhere to stay and get you online, can you pull an all-nighter, and trace all those things Giles talked about? Find out how many of his things we can get back for him? And then do one big push, and get the money in one go? ‘Cause you said, it sounds like serious bucks to us, but it’s not in stock market terms.”

“And one blip is just a blip, but more than one gets people looking for reasons,” nodded Willow. “What are you thinking, Buffy? Pay the Council, get them off his case?”

She looked across the tumbling water. “Yeah. And I’ll need to go see them. But the other stuff, I think we get it for Giles, or as much as we can, but we don’t necessarily give it to him yet. Xan’s right: he’ll refuse to take it from us, but that doesn’t mean it’s not his. We need to get it so that when he calms down,” and none of them was prepared to go with the idea that he might not calm down, “it’s there for him. Everything we can get back, we get back.”

“What about stuff like his books? Can we do anything with those? Because if we want to persuade him to accept stuff, books will be the one he can’t resist.” Even Xander knew that. “Will... how many of his books can you remember the names of?”

She frowned. “Not a tenth of them. But Wesley said he sold them through a Watcher-y bookshop, so if they all went there, some of them might still be, and they might have a list of what they bought.” Her lip trembled. “Poor Giles. His books...” It was obvious that although Xander and Buffy understood that Giles would regret – and resent – the loss of his books, Willow could actually empathise. She shook her head, chasing away the thought. “What about the intangibles, though?”

“The...”

She looked uncomfortable. “His reputation with the Council.”

“Mine,” said Buffy, shortly. “I gotta go there and kick some ass. Giles is getting his job back.”

Xander winced. “Buff... might be a bit soon to have him declared your Watcher again? Won’t work if he says he doesn’t want it? And this, whatever he did, the abjuring...”

She slumped. “I guess. But he can go back on the active list, or whatever it is, not have it show up in his file that he got canned. Get his benefits restored. Get him his passport back or whatever they did, so he can go wherever he wants.” She didn’t add that wherever Giles wanted might be wherever they weren’t. He obviously thought he had no place with them in America; none of them thought that the Council would take him back without a fight, and it didn’t sound like he had much of a place at home with his family.

“Then... there’s the Scoobies,” said Xander thoughtfully. “We gotta prove that we think he’s one of us.”

“How?” asked Buffy, sensibly.

“He’s online,” said Willow. “He said so. I guess I can find him. And even if he’s learned to work online, to use the libraries and so on, I bet he doesn’t know how to block his email. I’ll email him. Sooner or later he’ll be curious and he’ll read one.”

Buffy nodded. “I’ll write, snail mail.” She hesitated. “You think?”

Xander was doubtful about how likely it would be to succeed. “He won’t read it. He’ll chuck it in the trash.”

She shrugged. “Once a week, religiously, whether I get a reply or not. If it’s delivered, he’ll know I’m trying even if he doesn’t read it.”

Willow stared. “Can you do that? I mean, can you find enough to say?”

“I can report in,” she said sombrely. “Years ago, like when I met Giles first, he wanted me to do a written report once a week. I never did. Maybe now’s a good time to start, yeah? Xan? What are you gonna do?”

Yeah, well. He’d been thinking about that since Giles had shut the door, and he wasn’t sure how to do it, or how to tell them about doing it. “I’m gonna stay.”

They were both silenced for a moment; Buffy recovered first. “Stay?”

He nodded. Willow cocked her head. “Xan... he won’t let you in. Not yet.”

“I know. But...” and he turned and pointed at the shop front behind where he had parked the car. “I’m not gonna ask. Giles came for me when... and it’s all wrong for him now and it’s not right that he has to deal with it on his own. If he won’t... _Since_ he won’t let me in, I’m gonna buy some stuff... Will, if I give you my credit card number and my bank account as well, will you watch them for me? Maybe put some money for me on the total? I don’t think it’ll be much.”

Buffy frowned. “I don’t get it. What are you gonna do?”

He stood up, tossed the food wrapper into the trash can and shepherded them towards the shop. “It can’t be worse than sleeping in the yard at Christmas was at home. Sleeping bag. Small tent. Little gas cooker, maybe? Everything your average living-on-somebody-else’s-doorstep American needs. Let’s go look.”

When they actually cruised the store, he needed more than he had thought: a water container. A cooler for food. He didn’t know what sort of animals might live in the woods by Giles’ place but foxes at least seemed likely. Then he drove, for the last time, up the long hill to the stone wall. The house was fully visible now, as if Giles had stopped caring whether or not they could see it. When he looked down the track, he knew – he wasn’t certain how – that Giles wasn’t there; the horse had gone too and the field gate stood open.

“Xan, are you sure about this?” asked Willow doubtfully, accepting the car keys he mutely held out.

“No,” he said frankly, but she seemed to understand. The wards still showed like blue syrup when he came too close to the house, but he could touch the outbuildings; they exchanged glances and then looked into each one, a quick inspection, not an intrusion. Buffy gave a snort of laughter when a narrow door at the back of what had plainly been a wash-house opened onto an old fashioned toilet with multiple spider webs; she leaned in, and tugged on the chain hanging from the cistern at eye level. There was a rusty cough and a splash of grey water. Well, it wasn’t exactly the Coblan bathroom, but it was better than he had feared. The stone sink outside was wet, and there was a bucket underneath it, presumably from the stable. Only cold water, but water.

Between them it took only half an hour to get the tent up under the trees; after that they sat in the car, trying to remember anything else they needed to do. “Just make sure I don’t get deported.”

Willow nodded. “There was a library in the town, and the poster in the window said it had internet access. Email me.”

He agreed. “Where are you going next?”

“London,” said Buffy firmly. “The Council. And then home, and back to the slayage. Because... because the slayage is what it’s all about, and I need to be... I can’t let Giles down again. Xan, are you _sure_ this is the right thing for you to do?”

He nodded, and opened the door; they scrambled out behind him. Now that they were leaving, it was awkward: there should be something to say and nothing came to any of them. He hugged Willow, and then Buffy. “Just go, guys, O.K.?”

He stood while Willow turned the car, more slowly than he had done it but with less profanity, from the look of things, and waved, Buffy waving back and Willow smiling. Then he looked down the track at the house and the splash of colour a hundred yards away that was his tent. It _was_ the right thing to do, although he couldn’t have explained it to them. If Giles hadn't been repaid for all that he had laid out on Xander's account, then brand or no brand, the deal wasn’t done. Kay still belonged to Master and where Master was, Kay needed to be.  

Not, of course, that Xander was thinking of it that way. No. Just... Xander owed Giles a lot and he couldn’t repay it without being where Giles was.

Yeah, that was it.


	32. Xander 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: sea-bathing in Scotland in spring.

Giles didn’t even glance at the tent as he came back, sitting loosely on the black horse, but Xander wasn’t fooled. Watchers Watched; Watchers saw things, and Giles wasn’t stupid enough to miss a bright blue spot that hadn't been there when he went out. Besides, although the wards only seemed to cling to the actual house, not to the outbuildings, it was likely that there were some Xander didn’t feel, telling Giles when he had intruders.

He wondered for a moment if Giles would do something, make the ground buck, or the stream he could hear in the trees flood out his tent or... something to make him go, but Giles simply ignored him. He sat in the doorway of the tent and watched as Giles slid out of the saddle, and led the horse into the field. The saddle itself landed over the top of the gate; the bridle was hung on Giles’ shoulder, and the horse nosed at Giles’ palm obviously expecting a treat of some sort. Then it snorted, wheeled away and went down hard onto one side, twisting and wriggling as it rolled, scrambling up again, and leaning its head over the gate as Giles lifted the saddle. Xander heard him speak to it, but he couldn’t make out the words.

He spent two days just watching Giles. Then he began to pick up the work. There was a trail of smoke from the cottage chimney, and one of the open-fronted buildings was lined with firewood, and contained a sawhorse, and, when he nosed inside, an axe and saw. Well, he could do that. The heap of uncut wood, plainly collected from the forest around them, needed to be turned into something useable. It was dull work, but not difficult; Giles, inside the house, must surely have been able to hear him and to deduce what he was doing, but he didn’t come out. Later, when Xander was stacking the results of his labours, Giles came past on his way to the field, without sparing Xander a glance.

Well, he hadn't expected a morning’s chopping to make everything better.

The next morning, when overused muscles complained, he wondered for the first time about the wisdom of what he was doing. He had chased the largest of the spiders out of the wash-house – he didn’t _think_ that Britain had dangerous arachnids but he wasn’t absolutely certain, and there were places a man didn’t want to be surprised – and the stone sink allowed him a cold wash, but his aching shoulders would have preferred a shower, or a bath.

He explored, delicately; the patch of ground behind the muck heap was obviously Giles’ kitchen garden, but Xander couldn’t tell what was crop and what was weed. Still, presumably the ground would be better with fewer stones in it; a pile of rock in one corner suggested that Giles worked on that principle occasionally. Xander spent an hour or two removing rocks.

Giles ignored him.

He made connections. At the top of the track was a collection of a dozen large fat sacks, a neatly painted sign offering well rotted horse manure, and a jar with some small change in it. Behind the muck heap was another pile of sacks, and a shovel. He filled the sacks, and then found he couldn’t lift them; later he heard the cough of the Land Rover, and the rattle of a trailer, and retreated to do what he could with more cold water while Giles ran the sacks up the track.

Giles ignored him.

The weather continued fine, for which he was grateful; Giles watered his little vegetable patch every evening and after a week, Xander took that over. The distinction between weeds and not-weeds became more obvious as the plants grew; he did some careful weeding, and when Giles ignored him, threw caution to the wind and worked down one entire side of the patch. Giles spent a morning digging a long trench, and then a second, and tipping the soil from the second into the first; when he began a third and then left it while he went out on the horse, Xander carried on. The spiders began to re-colonise the wash-house, so Xander searched all the outbuildings until he found a spare bucket and brush, and scrubbed the whole thing, ceiling to floor.

That night, his back hurt so much that he didn’t sleep much, but Giles ignored him.

The horse was brought in at night, and in the morning there was a wheelbarrow full of damp straw and worse, to be added to the muck heap. _That_ , Xander knew how to do; stable work in Scotland was apparently much the same as stable work on Coblan. He wasn’t inclined to interfere with the horse, which was large, but once Giles had turned it out into the field in the morning, Xander shovelled and swept.

It only occurred to him when his milk ran out that he had no means of getting to the town other than on foot; it seemed much further walking than it had done in the car, and the hill, particularly since he had to carry everything he bought, was definitely both longer and steeper coming back than going. Cooking on a single ring camp stove wasn’t fun and seemed to occupy a hell of a lot of his time; the next time he walked to the town he bought a big thermos, and took to making a flask full of coffee at breakfast to last him through the day. He also began working his way down the menu at Mac’s Plaice.

The library was something of a problem. He could provide ID, but he had no proof of address in Scotland, and without one, he couldn’t have a library card or access to the computer. It took an expensive call to Willow for him to receive something official looking through the mail, addressed care of Mr R Giles, and dropped on his sleeping bag one day while he was out, to make him locally respectable.

Even Xander could see the irony: Giles had learned to use the computer; Xander was working his way through the books. He read up on the Care of the Horse; not that he was actually going any nearer the horse than he had to, but at least he knew what he should be looking for when he cleaned out the stable. He found a beginner’s guide to vegetable growing, checked it out, identified Giles’ plants and worked out what he needed to do to keep them healthy.

He found Giles’ generator in one of the outbuildings, listened to it on and off for a few days, and then went into the little dark workshop behind the tea room, and talked to the overall-clad owner. A week later, he dared to speak to Giles.

“Next time you take the jeep to town, will you pick up the generator parts? They’re paid for, they just need to be got out here and I can fit them. I’ll give you the receipt.”

Giles gave him a cold look, and opened his mouth, obviously to say something cutting, and Xander shook his head. “Sir, that generator has three more months in it, tops, if I don’t replace the rectifier.” Then he held his breath; he was damn sure that Giles didn’t know what a rectifier was or how to replace it; he didn’t know what had prompted him to call Giles ‘sir’, but it felt right. There was a moment’s silence, and then Giles nodded once, and moved past him, still without speaking.

That went well.

There was a day when the sun shone, not hotly, but steadily, all day, and he made the most of it, digging another of Giles’ long trenches beside the vegetable patch, picking out the worst of the rocks, filling bags with horse manure, and eventually, after slipping for the fifth time, rebuilding the muck heap. By late afternoon he could smell himself, and he could stand it no longer. He dragged out his towel, and trotted down the track to the water’s edge. There was nobody here to see him except Giles, and Giles had seen him in the raw before. Total immersion was called for.

The first lap of water around his ankles made him rethink the theory but a touch of his arm to his nose convinced him: he _had_ to be cleaner. Manfully, he strode further forward.

His feet went numb; it was an improvement. By the time the water had reached mid thigh, he was gasping. No, not total immersion. Out of the question. Standing in the water and splashing it about some would have to do.

A stone turned under his foot and he fell, arms waving wildly, creating a splash and bow wave that brought the birds out of the trees along the water line. He shot up again, wheezing and coughing, every muscle tight and screaming with complaint.

Giles, at the top of the stony beach, was watching him with an expression... well, it was the first expression in a month other than dislike and contempt, so Xander would take it. Giles wanted to laugh at Xander? Xander wouldn’t die of it.

He might, he thought, as he ducked under the water again, die of cold. But he would die of cold _clean._

Coming out, he aimed for dignity, or at least as much dignity as a man could manage stark naked and pale blue with the onset of hypothermia. Giles was calmly watching; Xander scrabbled for his towel. Two more steps and he realised that Giles’ gaze was slowly tracking down his body; he saw a most decided twitch of the lips before Giles turned away.

Yeah, well, O.K., so Little Xander apparently disapproved of water at that temperature. It didn’t mean Giles had the right to laugh at it.

After that, he tended to remove his shirt as often as it was warm enough to do so, in the cause of keeping it clean. There was a laundromat in the town, but it was expensive, and carrying a duffle of dirty clothing all that way was not fun. Also not fun were the small biting insects that appeared, apparently the second he _did_ remove his shirt, congregating in his hair, getting into his eyes and mouth, and raising scarlet welts that itched all night.

He wasn’t sure if it counted as fun or not, but he was aware, when the shirt came off, of Giles’ gaze on him. Never for long, and never when he could turn and catch him at it, but he knew: Giles was _looking_. He said nothing about it, because as the weather warmed, Giles removed his shirt too, when he went about the heavier work, and Xander found that _he_ was looking. Giles was in hard condition, lean and fit – perhaps even too lean?

When he found the power socket in the woodshed, behind a pile of rotten timber, he began to get ideas; he bought a hand drill, and some wiring supplies, and tapped off a second socket into the wash house. His intention was to buy a cheap electric kettle but he did better: he passed a sign on his trek into the town screaming _CAR BOOT SALE, ST ANDREW’S PLAYING FIELDS, TODAY_ , and went, more for amusement than out of any real interest. Fifteen minutes later – “Does the water heater work?”

“The... oh, the tea urn? Aye, but it needs a new flex. Belonged to the Church Guild.”

It was old, but it looked sound, and a new power cord wouldn’t be difficult, and hot water to wash in... _Technically_ , of course, it would be Giles’ electricity bill but...

It was an absolute pain to carry home, particularly since Giles, who had been somewhere in the Land Rover, passed him half a mile out of town – and didn’t stop for him. He was surprised by how much that hurt him. He was hurt by how much it didn’t surprise him.

That evening, he was sitting on the ground outside his tent – he was beginning to think that he would kill, or at least carry out a casual assault, for a proper chair – when Giles went past carrying the horse’s leatherwork. As usual, the G-Man didn’t look at him; as usual, Xander acknowledged him. He’d started doing that early on, simply because it felt right. Respectful. And God knew, Giles was entitled to some respect.

“Sir.”

He watched as Giles fitted the saddle and bridle, but it appeared the Big Guy didn’t mean to ride. He did something odd with the saddle, leaving the stirrups at the tops of their straps – Xander knew all those bits had names, he just didn’t know what they were – and the reins twisted underneath them somehow. Then he had a long canvas strap which he attached to the bridle by the horse’s mouth, and...

A whip. Xander's mouth went dry. It looked exactly like the whips he remembered: three feet or so long, thin, flexible. No lash, but the thing itself hurt like fuck and even after all this time, his body cringed from it. Giles had one. _Giles_ had one. Giles was carrying one and doing something with his horse.

Xander felt sick, but he watched. He had no idea what he was going to do but if Giles used that whip...

He watched. Giles wanted the horse to walk in some particular way, and he talked to it. He wanted it to move sideways, and he pushed at one flank and then at the other, and the horse shifted quietly away from him. Xander couldn't see what he was doing, exactly, but the horse seemed calm, and didn’t flinch or startle. After ten or fifteen minutes, Giles persuaded the horse to circle him, on the long canvas strap, first at a trot and then at a canter. He spoke to it, encouraging it onward, and when it slowed, he flicked the very end of the whip at its hindquarter, and Xander winced again. The horse, though, didn’t, just moving smoothly from one pace to another.

He couldn’t get _what_ Giles was doing after that. He stood at the horse’s head, and from the look of it, teased the whip against the glossy flank, while speaking steadily. After a while the long tail slapped at the skin where the whip had been, and a minute after that, the horse kicked, not, apparently very seriously, but Giles dropped the whip and patted it, whispering again. Then he turned it to face the other way, and started on the other flank, tickling and whispering until one hind leg came up off the ground and the horse stamped impatiently.

Apparently what Giles wanted was for the horse to kick, hard, both hind legs lifting off the ground and slamming out backwards, because when it did that, he produced some treat from his pocket.

Xander could make nothing of it. Why would anybody _teach_ a horse to kick? But plainly that was what Giles was doing: every day, he would work with the animal and after a week, it would kick out on a spoken command, with Giles at its head, or on its back. The next thing was him teaching it to rear, which he did by making it back into the corner of the fence, until it could back no more, and then _asking_ it, with a broad hand on its chest, to back further. The whip was left on the fence for this; Giles used nothing more frightening than the pressure of his hand.

Even when Giles rode in the field, turning from one painted marker to another, making the horse move and stop, turn and bend, Xander had to admit that he was more afraid of the whip than the horse – whose name he had identified as Ivo – appeared to be. Giles _used_ it, but not harshly. It rested across his thigh, and when Ivo was unresponsive, there would be the smallest flick of Giles’ wrist and the very end of the whip would rap at his flank. It seemed to make him jump, to get his attention, but no more. The horse, any idiot could see, wasn’t afraid of the whip – or of Giles.

Xander thought a lot about that.

As the weather improved, Giles took the horse out more often, and Xander heard them among the trees on the slope above the road. There seemed to be something important about the steep hill: they went up the hill four or five times every day, at a brisk trot or occasionally a canter, and then walked down, and repeated the whole thing. Then, if the weather was warm, Giles would run a hose over the sweaty black back and scrape most of the water off again, while Ivo hung his head in pleasure. Xander didn’t interfere, but when Giles was drying off the horse, he tended to come close enough to recoil the hose, and take it out from under Ivo’s feet.

Giles ignored him, until the day Ivo’s treat was something sticky (usually it was peppermints), and he made weird faces, wrinkling his nose and showing his teeth, twisting his tongue and making Giles laugh at him, and scratch his forehead. Xander just watched, until the comment was startled out of him

“Has he got a _tattoo_ on his _tongue?_ ”

Giles froze, and then turned slowly. “He had it before he came to me. All purebred Friesians do.” He added bitterly, “It wasn’t just some random cruelty on my part.”

Xander flinched. “I didn’t mean...” but Giles was turning away.

“Maybe you should be grateful I didn’t do it to you.”


	33. Xander 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: the epistolary chapter.

Hey, Willow, Buffy.

Thursday today so the XanMan is in town, whooping it up and... well. O.K. You saw the town. Exciting and vibrant? Not so much. But hey, _Thursday?_ It’s all go on Thursday. Thursday is market day and some weeks there are as many as eight stalls in the town square.

So what, I hear you ask, is the XanMan doing to celebrate?

Laundry. 10% off at the laundromat on Thursdays. Walked down the hill just for the sake of clean shorts. Then while the washer is running, I look around the market – butcher, florist, second hand books, really _really_ ugly cheap clothes, not even I will wear those shirts, fish, weird woman who sells buttons and knitting stuff, fruit and veg, and sometimes an even weirder woman with candles and herbs and not-even-a-little-bit-witchy supplies. Buy some apples and sausages for dinner tonight, look to see if the book stall has any thrillers other than the same ones as last week, back to swap everything from the washer to the dryer, over to the library – Xander Harris is of his own free will spending time in a library. Apocalypse imminent – and email the Willow-witch and the Buffster.

So O.K. What’s new? Got your mail and yeah, it sucks that the Council is being so difficult. I guess we should be grateful they haven’t made more of a fuss about the money thing, but if they’re paid and off Giles’ back, that’s got to be of the good. He hasn’t said anything about it to me, but then he hasn’t said anything about anything to me, so maybe not so surprising. Wish I could have seen you kicking ass, Buffy – and yes, I totally think that you need to kick some more, to get them to agree that Giles gets his job back. He’s not going to starve – at least I don’t think he is – now that they’re not chasing him for silly money and interest, but it’s not right that he should be left with no insurance and stuff.

And I totally don’t get how they can say that he’s not fit to be a Watcher. You’re the Slayer and if you say he’s your Watcher, then he’s your Watcher, right?

Well, O.K., maybe I do sort of get it. If he did the thing Wesley said – I’ve forgotten the word again – and sort of disbarred you as his Slayer, then I guess since you _are_ the Slayer, he can’t be the Watcher. Hey, I’m not saying it’s fair, I’m just saying that I can kind of see how it works.

So we’ve got to persuade him to undisbar you. Is that a word even?

O.K., partial success at the Council end. At this end? Not so much. Giles doesn’t speak to me, much, by which I mean, at all. I think I’ve had twenty words from him in three months, and I don’t talk to him, because... well, because he walks away when I try and babble doesn’t go over real well without an audience. I’ve done a load of stuff here – I watch what the Big Guy starts and when he stops I take it over. He painted the outside of the house – well, he painted one wall and I did the rest. I do stuff in his garden. He started making little fake fences for his horse to jump over, and when the horse stood on one of them and broke it, I worked out a better way to make it. Then the horse pushed part of the real fence down, and Giles went off in the jeep and bought a load of fence poles and I built a fence.

And guys, I kind of don’t know what to think about all this, because I was getting real shirty that Giles never said thank you – never said _anything_ – and never seemed a bit grateful or even real interested, and I was working up to telling him so, and then I kind of didn’t, because I thought, this is what we used to do to him. This is what we did with research and stuff – we started it and left him to finish it, or we agreed that it ought to be done and we never did it. I guess we took him for granted and now I’m getting it back in my teeth. So – well, I guess I’m just sucking it up.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the things he said – yeah, Xander thinking, everybody has to lie down in a darkened room with wet cloths on their heads. Guys, I get that we’re all a bit...

O.K., I’ve written this paragraph three times and deleted it and written it again. So I’m just going to put it down, and if you could maybe think about what I’m saying and not the way I’m saying it?

Yeah. Right. Giles was rude. The things he said – that I was lazy and Willow was arrogant and Buffy was cowardly – those were well out of order. But what was out of order wasn’t _what_ he said. It was the way he said it. We, all of us, we need to pick what he said out of the how he said it and face up to it, because we _so_ had it coming to us. He didn’t say anything that Wesley hadn't told us already. Maybe exaggerated a bit, the way accusations always are in a quarrel but... well, well, there was some truth in all of what he said. The _way_ he said it, I’m thinking that... Look. I probably have more experience than either of you with the G-Man being ticked at me. He’s chewed me out plenty of times – but never like that, and I think the difference is that before, he’s been mad at me for something I’ve done but it didn’t engage him emotionally, yeah? This time, we keep saying that he’s mad at us, and yeah, he is, but the big point? The big point is that he’s hurt. He’s hurt big time and that’s our fault too. He’s offended and angry and he has reason, but I think half the reason is that we hurt him. He said he was mad that he should have needed to justify himself to us, but I’ve been thinking, how would I have felt if you had all yelled at me for doing something really, _really_ , awful, not by accident but on purpose, and I simply hadn't done it, and it leaves me thinking not that I would want to fight you all but that I would be so hurt. I’d be hurt that you thought I’d done it and I’d be hurt if you wouldn’t let me say I hadn’t, and I’d be hurt if I _did_ say I hadn't and you all said ‘yeah, but you did’.

I don’t know what good that is now that I’ve said it. Some ways, I don’t know if it matters if he’s mad or hurt. He hasn’t forgiven us. I was thinking too – remember what he said to me about sorry not always cutting it? About there being consequences? I think I’m sort of getting that too: it’s like, say, you’ve got your grandmother’s whatever that your grandfather made for her when they were newlyweds. It’s a family heirloom and it’s real important to you. Then I come in, and knock it over and break it. I may be real sorry, and you may forgive me – but the whatsit is still broken and spoiled, and you’re still going to be sad about it, even if you’re not mad at me. We’ve broken the way Giles thinks about us, and even if he did forgive us – which he didn’t – it’s _still broken_. He can’t say it’s O.K., because it’s _not_. We’re sweeping the pieces back together and saying ‘see! It’s fine now!’ and he’s just looking at the cracks and the chips and the handle that doesn’t attach any more and it is so totally not fine.

We know Giles can get over stuff. Look at what Angelus did to him, and when Angel came back, Giles was so not O.K. with it – and I don’t blame him. But by graduation, Giles was... well, maybe not over it. I don’t know that anybody would ever get over being tortured for hours and then being fooled into giving in, and thinking that other people were going to die and it was because you _had_ given in. You wouldn’t get over that, would you? And when he brought up that Miss Calendar was dead, I sort of felt that we’d lost sight of her, and I don’t think Giles is totally over that either, and I don’t know if he ever will be. So no, not over it, but he managed to live with the fact that Buffy was seeing Angel again. He does manage to deal with bad stuff. But that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. Maybe Angel didn’t mean to turn into Angelus and break Giles’ fingers, but he did, and the fact that he was sorry afterwards doesn’t make it right. Giles’ fingers were still broken. Miss Calendar was still dead.

We fucked up, guys, and however sorry we are... do you see?

Guys, I think – I hate to think but I do – that we can’t make it all the way it was before with Giles as Buffy’s Watcher living where we do and doing all the Watcher-y things. I think it needs to be different but I don’t know different how.

I don’t know what good that is.

Will, I got where you said that you’d been emailing him, and I don’t know if he sees it or not. There’s a telephone in the house, I can see it from outside the window, and it’s true that he has a computer and uses it, and you have no idea how _wrong_ that looks.

Buff, I know your letters are being delivered because twice at least I’ve met the mailman at the top of the hill and taken the mail down and put it at the door for Giles, and your letters were there. They go into the house, but I don’t know if he reads them. Sorry.

Guys, keep on at the Council. When I said Giles wouldn’t starve, he’s not doing way better than not starving. We always knew he could put in the hours when it comes to work, and he’s doing it. He gets up at stupid o’clock, he works like a dog until half past dark, and then he sits inside and works some more. He sells horse shit – and yours truly bags that up, thank you very much, which is one of the reasons for the weekly laundromat trip – and vegetables at the side of the road, but that doesn’t make much. He’s doing some sort of research, I don’t know what, on the computer, and every so often there are big packets of paper come in the mail for him, and he sends something back. You saw what gas costs here, and when he said he couldn’t afford to fill the jeep, I don’t think he was lying. At least, he hardly ever uses it, just once a week or so when he goes to the store. Other than that, he walks. He does something after hours at the school once a week – and he walks to that. It’s a good five or six miles round trip, and he walks in the rain and all. He walked off one night with his guitar case, and the next week, when he did it again, I followed him. He knew I was there, I could tell from the way his shoulders hunched, but he walked all the way to town, and then he sang in the pub, and I think he got fed for it, and a beer and a whisky chaser. Five miles carrying a guitar, for that? For pub lasagne and apple pie, and two drinks? Now he does it every week.

He’s doing something else but I don’t know what it is. He rides the horse every day and they do weird exercises, galloping and stopping real sudden, moving sideways, he taught the horse to kick and rear, and now he’s training for something. He’s running miles – well, he goes out running and he doesn’t come back for hours – he’s doing all those slow sword exercises he used to want you to do, Buff, and I caught him in the woods hanging on the branch of a tree and doing pull-ups. Buff, he was doing blocks of twenty and then sprinting and coming back and doing some more. He doesn’t look at all the way he did in Sunnydale and he was in good shape _then_. He’s lost weight, and he looks hard, but I don’t know what he’s in training _for_. A couple times I’ve seen him doing push ups and curls and stuff, and he does more than I ever remember him doing before. It makes me tired just watching him.

And he and the horse are – Will, I was going to say, they were up to something, which is dumb. There’s another guy who comes here with a horse trailer, and a horse in it, and Giles takes his horse and loads it in the trailer and they go off somewhere. They’re gone a couple hours and when they come back, Giles looks exhausted, and the horse is sweaty. Last time, I swear Giles took a weapons case with him. I’d say he was patrolling except that it was the middle of the day.

And that’s a bit weird in some ways too – I haven’t seen anything here that was dead or undead or nearly dead or optionally dead. Yeah, Giles has wards up, and I know enough to put up some of my own, but there hasn’t been anything even touching mine since I got here. Nothing even trying. Don’t you think that’s odd?  

O.K., my stuff will be dry by now, and if I’m not quick there will be somebody else wanting the dryer and dumping my clothes out. After that I’m going to the town swimming pool; I pretend it’s because I want the exercise but it’s not. It’s because there’s hot water in the changing room. I shower, and then I swim for half an hour so that they don’t think I’m only coming in for the bathroom, and then I shower again, and by then the huge line for lunch should have gone down some, and then I get to walk all the way home again.

Keep trying to find Giles’ fishing river, yeah? And I had a thought: I know we’re not high on Wesley’s list of favorite people but he might remember the names of some more of Giles’ books and have some ideas about where we could get them.

I miss you guys!

Love, X


	34. Xander 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Inter-species off-stage sex. Also this is the musical chapter. It sounded more or less like this: [Dowland](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4EmIPY8yqY).

It was summer or at least as close to summer as Scotland seemed to be. Cool, by the standards of what he expected, and damp. Giles’ vegetable patch had suddenly exploded into life and Xander was spending a lot of time weeding and watering.

Giles ignored him.

Xander had reached some sort of agreement with Ivo: the horse appeared to like him, since he was the one now who arrived with what he had learned to call haylage. Ivo, he had begun to understand, was driven mostly by his stomach, and his affections were easily bought. He liked to be scratched around his ears too, and would stand with his head lowered, nudging for Xander or Giles to pet him.

It made Xander feel... he wasn’t sure quite what, watching Giles rub affectionately at the horse’s ears and nose. He tried not to remember what it had felt like to have Giles stroke his hair and touch his neck, because he didn’t _know_ how he felt about it. Sometimes he remembered that it had felt real good, that he had felt safe, and, and, and he was _not_ using the word ‘loved’. Sometimes he just felt embarrassed that he could even remember lying on a massive couch, cuddled up against Mas... against Giles’ side, and _wanting_ to be there.

He never, ever, allowed himself to think that despite the presence in the town of both an old-fashioned barber and a rather more up to date hair salon, he hadn't had his hair cut since he had left America. It wasn’t long enough to braid, but he was already having to tie it out of his eyes with a leather thong he had found on one of the market stalls.

He had begun to understand why Giles was in such hard condition; even without the specific workouts that Giles was doing, the plain physical work involved around the cottage was having its effect on Xander too. He had found a kind of junk yard for building materials half way to the town, and had gone twice a day, each time retrieving four red bricks, until the yard owner had given way to curiosity and asked what he was doing. The sheepish confession that he was building a firepit but that he had no transport and was therefore buying bricks singly, and that just collecting the materials for his building project would therefore take something in the region of three months, reduced both the owner and his assistant to helpless laughter, following which it was established that the assistant’s girlfriend lived in the next village over, and that Xander's bricks could be delivered, just this once and without setting a precedent for anything else he needed.

With that as a given, he had bought enough bricks to build not only a firepit on his side of the yard, but also a barbecue on the house side. He had no idea whether or not Giles liked to barbecue – and he had more than half a notion that the climate in Scotland didn’t lend itself to outdoor catering – but he had always wanted to try building a grill and this was his chance.

And anyway, there was a pile of steel racking just beyond the heap of bricks and it would be a shame to let it go to waste. He took some of that for his fire pit too.

The pit was a great success. It was big enough that when he sat close by, he could feel the heat off it, and the racking over the top made it possible to cook on it. The brick lining meant that he didn’t worry about fire risk when he went to sleep, or when he lit it in the late afternoon and then went to carry out some task before dinner. He rather thought that he saw Giles cast a glance or two at it, particularly the Friday night that he gave in to temptation, and sat beside it cooking a steak, with a foil wrapped potato in the coals underneath, and a beer in his hand. He had, over the course of about a week, dragged a couple of tree stumps down from the felling line on the hill above, and had contrived a seat with a back, which, provided he laid his sleeping bag on it before he sat down, didn’t cripple him entirely if he sat on it for a couple of hours. He had celebrated with the steak dinner, and with a couple of bottles of beer, not as cold as he would have liked, but at least partially chilled in the tumbling stream. He wondered if Giles would have come over for a beer and a steak if he had asked him – and decided that he would not.

Giles seemed to have to make more of an effort than usual to ignore him.

The next day he started building Giles’ barbecue, a smart, decently sized (because Giles, after all, was a tall man) red brick affair, with a cooking grille and a warming grille above it, and a weather protector made mostly from the bonnet (the man at the reclaim yard told him it was a bonnet, not a hood) of a Volkswagen Beetle.

Giles ignored him.

When it was complete, he bought a small pack of coals and made up the barbecue ready to use.

Giles... looked at it, and went back into the house, emerging with his guitar, of all things. It was a pleasant evening, warm, not too heavily populated with the little flying biting things, and Giles went to a rocky outcrop above the water. Xander had sat there himself a couple of times, watching the birds come in as the tide turned. He’d heard Giles sing too, more than once since he came to Scotland; he tried not to follow him to the pub every week, but he had slipped in once or twice to listen. This time Giles was playing nothing he had ever heard before, but it all sounded sad; somehow it put Xander in mind of Mas... of Giles in the house on Coblan, that last night before it all went so horribly wrong. Of Giles with his fingers softly in Xander's hair, stroking him to a state of blissful relaxation and all the time looking so exhausted and unhappy himself.

He had forgotten that: the way Giles had looked that night.

Presently Giles began to sing. He’d never heard Giles sing anything like this either. He couldn’t follow it all; Giles was facing away from him but occasional lines came to him.

_Exiled for ever, let me mourn,_ he heard that, and then a moment later _and tears and sighs and groans my weary days of all joys have deprived_. Then there was a hesitating one about dwelling in darkness with something about pale ghosts, and another one about sleep and death that made Xander shiver, and then Giles just played, didn’t sing any more for half an hour or so. It still sounded like he was using the guitar to express something that was beyond the words even of words-guy himself, and Xander wondered... what had happened to all that bitterness Giles had shown when they had come to see him? He hadn't seen Giles express anything other than his usual courtesy in his dealings with the local people, but that much resentment wouldn’t just... wouldn’t just go away, would it?

He suddenly realised that Giles was doing magic, weaving it through his music. He’d seen it done often enough now that he could recognise the technique and he found that he even knew enough to identify the spell. It was a Draw, designed to announce one’s presence to another person capable of recognising the call. It didn’t do anything much; it didn’t bring anyone in against their will, it didn’t identify the listener, it just said ‘I’m here’. He wondered who it was that Giles wanted to announce himself to. Presently the music shifted again, becoming a little less melancholy, and he played something two or three times, slightly differently each time, with a rising line in it that Xander found himself listening for. Now he was listening hard and when Giles began to sing he followed it; he didn’t altogether understand what it was about, but it sounded as if Giles was complaining about some woman who wasn’t nice to him. _Come again, that I may cease to mourn through thy unkind disdain_... Only Giles wasn’t being consistent, sometimes it was about ‘her’ and sometimes it was ‘him’. _His eyes of fire, his heart of flint is made._..

 The girl coming up the track from the water’s edge made him jump: he hadn't seen her approach, and actually, where had she come from? That track only went to the water and although you _could_ walk along the little stony beach, it didn’t lead anywhere except to another headland covered in brambles and brush with no way back to the road. She was dressed hippy fashion – he wasn’t sure if that was current style in Scotland, but he rather thought not – in a long loose dress, made of some filmy stuff in shades of white and grey and blue-green, that made him think of water. Around her shoulders was an odd cape-like coat that almost looked like short fur, and she had no shoes. She was carrying, of all things, four fish, hung on a twist of what must be cord, but which looked more like seaweed. Her long hair was an odd silvery blonde with darker streaks – or possibly dark with odd silvery blonde streaks – and it seemed wet. She was smiling at Giles.

Then she looked past him at Xander; he felt an odd surge of something, an attraction, a pull, and when he forced himself to glance away it felt rude. She wasn’t as young as he had thought from her hair and the supple way she moved. Not a girl – a woman.

When he looked back, she had returned her attention to Giles, who was speaking to her quietly, as if he knew who she was. He rose stiffly from the rock, balancing the guitar, and the woman asked him something. Xander couldn’t make out the words, but he could hear the tone, and he could hear Giles’ reply. “His name is Xander; he won’t hurt you, Murna.”

Like what with the huh? What sort of visitor had to be told that another sort of visitor wouldn’t hurt them?

_The sort of visitor who maybe isn’t completely human,_ his experience pointed out. _The sort of visitor who comes out of nowhere to visit with an ex-Watcher. The sort of visitor who is called by an ex-Watcher running witchy-stuff through his guitar._

They passed close by him; Giles went in front, and stopped at his nice new barbecue. He carefully took the fish from the woman and laid them on the brickwork, clear of the grid; then he reached into his pocket for matches and set light to the coals.

The G-Man had all sorts of skills the Scoobies had never realised, Xander thought confusedly; he could light a barbecue with one match. Xander never managed to get the fire going in his pit with fewer than six.

The Giles turned back to the woman and said something to her in a low voice, his hand outstretched. She looked at him for a long moment, her head slightly inclined, and then slowly slid her coat clear of her shoulders. Giles waited and, still slowly, she allowed him to take it from her. Xander saw him smile, that gentle shy smile he remembered from watching Giles with Jenny Calendar and Olivia, and then he leaned forward to the woman and kissed her, still gently.

Xander was nearly sick with the surge of jealousy that swept through him.

He could almost have believed that he had said something, or moved, because the woman – Murna, had Giles called her? – turned and stared at him, but Giles laid a hand on her shoulder, speaking gently and shaking his head, and she turned back to him. Xander found that he was shivering, but he couldn’t speak – and what, anyway, would he have said? – as Giles held out an inviting hand, and Murna followed him into the house.

They were an hour or so inside, by which time Xander had retreated to his tent, pulling the sleeping bag free of his wooden seat and flinging it irritably inside before sprawling on it, head to the open tent flap, one hand on his book, one eye on the cottage door, pretending not to listen for movement. When they came out, Giles left the door open, and he could see their silhouettes move against the light from inside, and then against the fainter glow of the barbecue. Giles, it seemed, had a knife; the fish were neatly filleted, and the bones and yucky bits scraped into the pages of the local free newspaper that both Giles and Xander collected in the town. Fish cooked fast on the barbecue; Giles and the woman ate it with their fingers, adding handfuls of the looseleaf lettuce and herbs from the vegetable patch. They were talking softly, and Giles dipped back into the house for a wine bottle, to Xander's surprise: he hadn't seen the Big Guy drink at all, other than his weekly pint and chaser when he sang in the pub, since he had got here. He couldn’t hear what they were talking about, just the soft rumble of Giles’ voice and Murna’s lighter tones. Presently Giles picked up his guitar again, although the things he played were soft and he didn’t seem to finish any of them, just noodling his way from one riff to another, occasionally singing a line or two, and Xander found himself drifting. He woke up with a crick in his neck to find them gone, the door closed, and the only light showing through what he knew to be Giles’ bedroom window.

The woman might have left, but the twist of jealousy in Xander's stomach told him she hadn't, and the soft triumphant cry from the window told him why not.

He slept badly, rousing at every sound, every passing fox or badger, every car on the road above, and finally and irrevocably at the birds kicking off in the treeline. He squinted at his watch; it was half past too fucking early but he could tell that he wasn’t going back to sleep. He might as well fill and start the water heater, have a wash, think about coffee, eat the last of yesterday’s stale bread and plan his day _without_ thinking about the weird woman in Giles’ house and what they were doing. The woman who was allowed into the house when he was not. The woman who was allowed into Giles’ _bed_ when he was not, when Giles had _promised_ and whoa, where had that come from?

From Coblan: he had asked and Giles had said yes, _tomorrow_ , and then tomorrow had never come.

But there were footsteps outside the tent and when he pulled himself free of his sleeping bag and crawled outside, the world was pale and cool, with mist lying low on the grass. The girl – woman – was holding Giles’ hand; over his free arm he was carrying her coat. They were walking towards the shore and it was just curiosity that sent Xander after them in his shorts, because he wanted to know where she had come from. Giles, he suddenly realised, was only wearing his jeans: no shirt, no shoes, and he looked easy and relaxed in a way that Xander hadn't seen in months.

But the girl was... she was wading into the water, her dress floating and lifting around her knees, and Giles following her, until she turned back, wreathing her arms around him and kissing him, open mouthed. He steadied her, resting his forehead against her, and murmuring to her, and then took half a step back, swinging her coat around her shoulders.

Xander couldn’t quite see what happened next; the sun glinted off the water, making him squint and blink, but he _thought_ that Murna threw herself backwards, and a coil of the mist passed between her and Giles, or he would have thought that she was changing shape. Certainly when he frowned and stared, she was gone, and something dark rolled once in the water at Giles’ knees, and was gone too. Giles watched for a minute and then waded back to the pebbled shore and the track; his jeans were wet to half way up his thighs but he was smiling – until he saw Xander watching. He hesitated, and then went past unspeaking, closing the cottage door behind him, and when Xander looked back at the water, there was nothing there but a seal, swimming against the tide.


	35. Xander 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: just a hint of the armour.

He didn’t mention Murna to either Buffy or Willow, although he wasn’t quite sure why he didn’t want to. He did some research of his own, reading up about Scottish legends, after she had come to Giles the third time; he started off with were-creatures, since plainly she wasn’t human, and it didn’t take him long to get to the selkie.

It sounded odd to him: he knew about mermaid legends, with the sea creature that sang to attract a human lover, but here was totally human Giles singing to draw Murna out of the water to _him_. She only left the water at dusk, staying overnight and returning at dawn, and although Giles didn’t always sing her up from the shore, every visit involved his guitar at some point.

Once, though, at noon, Giles swam in the loch – well, no, he did it more than once when the weather was warm enough and so did Xander himself, although the water was always shockingly cold – but once, Xander saw a sleek dark head in the water with him, ducking and rolling in play.

He was also conscious that the selkie legends leaned heavily on themes of trust and the lack of trust; the selkie wife was kept from the water by a human husband hiding her sealskin, and yet Murna plainly trusted Giles completely with hers.

Trust. He thought about trust a _lot_. He’d remembered what Giles had said about the guy he had met at Serpentine, trusting Giles’ judgment after only meeting him twice. He’d thought about the time he’d seen them together, and about the fact that the guy had plainly trusted Giles then, trusted him enough to play a scene with him. Trusted him not to do anything the guy – what was his name? Giles had said but Xander couldn’t remember – anything he wouldn’t like. Trusted him not to go too far.

He thought about Buffy and the Cruciamentum, and yeah, he could see, kinda, that after that, her trust in Giles might not have been complete. She never said so, but she must have thought it, right?

He thought about Giles and Angel. No way could Giles have trusted Angel after the Angelus thing. He just _couldn’t._ Ever. And once Buffy had chosen to go back to Angel, how could Giles have trusted _her_ either? But he did. He had.

His guilt twisted. Giles had trusted him over the phone-buddy thing, and he’d not... He faced it. He’d lied, and he’d known as he did it that Giles would never ask Willow if he’d done it; Giles had just trusted his word, and he’d never intended to keep it.

It made him hot with shame: the people who knew Giles _best_ – Buffy, him, Willow, the Council – hadn't trusted that Giles knew what he was doing and was doing the best he could under horrible circumstances. The people who hardly knew him at all – the guy in Serpentine, the selkie, even Wesley – seemed to trust him absolutely. Wesley. That was really shaming: that _Wesley_ should have been the one to say ‘I know it looks damning but what I know of Giles tells me there’s more to the story than that,’ and that Xander hadn't had the courage to say ‘this one bad thing doesn’t make sense in the light of all the good things we know about.’

He picked at it like he scratched at the bumps on his shoulders from the damned flying biting things, and it was just the same: the more he scratched it, the more it itched, and the more it itched the more he scratched it.

He’d worked out what the other thing that looked wrong was: Giles had given up his spectacles. He wore them first thing in the morning, and occasionally late in the day, but in between, it seemed that the G-Man had made it to civilisation and bought contact lenses. It was obviously working for him, but Xander sometimes wondered what he did when he wanted to play for time now that spectacle cleaning wasn’t an option.

On top of that, there was something going on. Giles was spending a lot more time than before grooming Ivo and working with him. Xander couldn't make a lot of it, but he wasn’t certain if that was simply because he knew nothing about horses, or because Giles was doing something odd. It almost looked as if he was teaching the horse to dance, but that made no sense: why would Giles do that? And it wasn’t quite right, anyway – the horse, it seemed, _knew_ how to dance, but not how to dance with Giles. Giles himself was in heavy training: he was running more than ever, and he had built a blocky figure which stood in the field in which he and Ivo worked, and then basically beaten the crap out of it with a sword. After a few days, Xander had started arriving with Giles’ toolbox from the woodstore as soon as Giles put the sword down to do his stretches, and rebuilding the thing for the next day. He had _no_ idea what Giles was doing, and he wasn’t going to ask, but the way Giles used heavy tools wigged him completely and although Giles never commented, Xander was fairly certain that he knew that Mr Woodman was lasting longer under Xander's care than he would have done under Giles’.

Then there were the hanging rings. Giles fitted tall poles behind half a dozen of the fence posts, each with a crosspiece at the top. Then he came in one day with a ball of string and a handful of metal hoops, which he attached to the crosspieces with string. Xander was fascinated, and the more so when Giles lifted a flexible pole, and climbed onto Ivo’s back. A _lance?_  Was Giles working out a new sort of patrolling?

Apparently not. He rode Ivo along the side of the field, hooking the rings on the pole and snapping them off the support. Then he tied them all on again, and repeated it. By the fourth time, he was dropping the rings at one end of the field, and Xander was retrieving them and tying them up again, without any words being exchanged.

After a week, Ivo could come down the line at a fast canter and Giles would hook five out of six of the hoops.

Xander still couldn’t see what the point of it was.

The man with the horse trailer was coming more often too, and Giles and Ivo were going off with him twice a week. It was plainly leading to something, because suddenly Giles had a peculiar set of leatherwork for Ivo, that required careful fitting, and removing, and fitting again, and he was cleaning a set of swords that Xander, who thought he knew the entire contents of Giles’ armoury, didn’t recognise.

Then one day the man, whose name seemed to be James, came early, and Giles and Ivo were gone all day, coming home well after Xander had begun to worry. James took Giles’ weapons case to the door for him, while Giles led Ivo to the stable; even from a distance, Xander could see that Giles was tired, and lame. When the trailer was gone, he took his courage in both hands, and followed Giles, picking up the water bucket and carrying it to the tap. Then he filled the hay net, and handed it over: there was some sort of particular knot Giles used to attach it, and Xander didn’t know what it was. After that... he just watched. Giles was brushing Ivo, who had plainly been very sweaty; his coat was flattened and marked where the saddle had been, but when Xander cautiously touched his neck, he wasn’t damp. Giles was brushing the marks out, slowly; he was obviously bone weary, and Xander risked opening the half door, slipping inside the stable, moving to the other side of the horse and holding his hand out for the brush.

He thought that Giles would refuse him, or ignore him, but actually he hesitated for a long breath, and then passed the brush across Ivo’s back, lifting a sort of hook thing from the wall, and persuading Ivo to pick up one of his forefeet instead, to have the packed mud removed from the curve of the horseshoe.

Xander brushed on, trying to keep the rhythm steady and to look inconspicuous – as inconspicuous as he _could_ look, with Giles having to work around him. He had no illusions about it: the _only_ reason he was being permitted to do this was that Giles was too exhausted to argue.

“That’ll do,” said Giles abruptly. “He’s too tired for much more. I’ll do it properly tomorrow.” He backed out of the stable, waiting for Xander not, it seemed, out of politeness, but merely to see that the door was properly shut and the kick bolt engaged. Then he retreated to the house, at much less than his usual pace. Yup, lame and dead weary. Xander couldn’t work it out at all.

In the morning, Giles looked worse; Xander saw him over the top of the split cottage door, stretching and flexing, and it seemed to be causing him a fair amount of pain. He came out much later than he usually did; Xander had already gone over Ivo again with the brush – which Ivo had seemed to enjoy – and decided that he didn’t know how to make the horse pick up his feet, or what to do with the hook thing if Ivo did. Giles came into the stable while Xander was rather nervously brushing straw and wood shavings out of Ivo’s tail, and had done the feet thing himself, before slipping a head collar over the horse’s nose and leading him across to the field. By the time he came back, Xander had retrieved the fork, and was starting on the dirty straw, and Giles...

Giles didn’t ignore him, exactly; Giles simply seemed preoccupied. Xander was still ignored but... passively? It didn’t feel like a definite, deliberate act on Giles’ part.

Giles didn’t ride that day; towards evening, he caught Ivo and groomed him himself, very thoroughly, until he was smooth and shining again. Xander noticed that at the same time, he was running his hands over every inch of the horse, obviously looking for anything painful or uncomfortable. Then he did the thing with the long canvas strap again, making Ivo move around him, but Xander could see that it was only enough to make the horse stretch and prove himself fit.

He could make nothing of it – and ten days later it all happened again. Giles didn’t seem to be in pain this second time, but the day had been hot, and when he unloaded his horse from the trailer, his shirt was stuck wetly to his back. Whatever he was doing when he was gone, it was plainly very physical.

It was the next Thursday, on his way to his weekly appointment with the library email, that he spotted the poster in the window of the tiny Tourist Information office – and he was half way on to the war memorial before his brain processed the fact that he had just seen a picture of Giles. He went back.

**_Hoofbeat History at Fitzallan Castle!_ **

**_Meet the Lords and Ladies!_ **

**_Archery, Jousting and Mediaeval Entertainments!_ **

**_See the Squires and Knights Marischal, the Heroes and Villains_ **

**_Full Tourney – who will take the Champion’s Crown?_ **

**_behind the scenes tours, court jester, birds of prey, craft and food market, modern and mediaeval refreshments_ **

And yes, that was definitely Giles, dressed in green and white, with a mail shirt showing beneath it and a sword in his hand, sneering defiantly into the camera from Ivo’s glossy back, while Ivo reared. 

Xander went in to the Tourist Information office. He needed a local map, and directions to Fitzallan Castle, and a bus timetable.


	36. Xander 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Wicked Sir Rupert is Wicked.

The man with the trailer came early; Xander watched Giles load Ivo and his weapons case, and climb into the cab. As soon as the trailer was out of sight, he picked up his wallet and his jacket and trotted up the track. The castle gates didn’t open until ten, but the bus left from the town centre, and there was no way to get to the town other than his own booted feet. He hadn't fancied saying to Giles “Hey, I wanna see this thing you do dressed up as a knight; can I grab a lift?”

It was actually quite a pleasant walk; this early in the day, the temperature was comfortable and hey, he must be getting fitter, because the walk was way less of a drag than it had been when he first got to Scotland. He was in good time for the bus, and by the middle of the morning, he was standing at the ticket office of the castle, handing over what seemed a scandalously large sum and being told that the next guided tour would begin in ten minutes from the bailey.

The place was heaving with people, many of them families with children; he wondered with bitter amusement what his father would have made of such an outing. The man who came to collect them was costumed, not as anything impressive, but obviously as a fighting man from whatever the heyday of the castle had been.

If history had been explained this way at Sunnydale High, Xander would have been much more inclined to do his own homework than to copy Willow’s. The fighting guy led them all around the outside of the castle, talking about attacking and defending, about how it could be done and how it had been done, and when it had been done and why, and Xander was fascinated. Then Fighting Guy took them to a flight of stairs and handed them over to a woman in a long brown dress who took them through the kitchens and out into a green patch with a vegetable and herb garden much better than Giles’ one. She was full of information about herbs, and which ones were good for food, and which ones were primitive medicines, and which of _those_ actually worked and how and why. She mentioned books and Xander made a panicky mental note – and then relaxed when she added with a smile that modern editions were available in the gift shop. He knew enough from Willow to be aware that some of the stories about demon-repelling plants were actually true, and if rowan trees would grow in Scotland, then Giles ought to have some. 

The next guide was a musician; he took them from the garden to a tiny chapel, and then through various courts and rooms, before handing them over to...

Giles.

Giles was _amazing._ Xander was uncomfortably aware that the recent Giles wasn’t at all like Sunnydale Giles, but he hadn't given much thought to what other people might make of him. Sunnydale Giles (Xander could admit it to himself now) was handsome, and he had looked, not soft exactly – nobody who had seen him armed with an axe and beating seven sorts of crap out of a tentacled thing would ever have used the word ‘soft’ – but he’d been sort of unfocused: wavy hair, tweed, the stammer, occasional clumsiness. Blurry? Fuzzy at the edges?

The new Giles Xander had seen, Scotland’s Giles, was quite different. Militarily short hair, no spectacles, abrupt speech with much less by way of a stammer to be heard, sharp precise movements, a hard, muscled body, an image all edges and corners.

And this was another Giles again: this one was clever, well informed, _funny._ This Giles rounded them up, without even a hesitation when his eyes met Xander's, somehow made them into a cohesive group, and swept them off to see the towers, the royal chambers, the seneschal’s rooms. He had a story about each one, not just a page of history but something to bring the inhabitants alive. At each turn he pointed out something Xander would never have spotted on his own: the scratched game board on a ledge in the guardroom; the clever venting in the enormous chimney which ensured that the room didn’t fill with smoke when the wind changed, the trick step, now rendered immobile, designed to catch out intruders. With a spark from Giles, carefully fanned, the group caught light: one small boy dared to ask a question, and Giles took him seriously, and answered him without patronising him or talking down to him; suddenly all the children wanted to know one thing or another and how and why and when, and Giles sat on the window ledge, his back to a stone wall, and led a discussion on castle building for ten year olds. An older man asked about defensive structures and Giles gave him a couple of fascinating minutes on strategy, before gathering his group and leading them on to the next sight; even then, he continued to discuss the technical aspects on the stairs. A woman commented on the size of a doorway, and Giles filled her in on the likely height and weight of an average man and woman in the twelfth century and the fifteenth century, as compared with the current day.

Giles was amazing; Xander was amazed. The Giles he knew always wanted to be inconspicuous; this one didn’t seem to care. The Giles he knew had always wanted to tell them stuff, and they had generally wanted not to be told; he wasn’t sure what the difference was here, because he remembered Giles with a heavy tome being total boring guy, and yet this Giles, feeding out tale after tale of the castle being besieged in thirteen hundred and whatever, and changing hands and changing sides five times in twelve months when the Black Some Guy and the Red Some Other Guy kept double crossing each other during some war Xander had never even heard of, was about as far from boring as Xander could imagine. Had he learned how not to be boring?

Had he always been interesting, but they hadn't noticed? Was it perhaps not that Giles was different, but that _Xander_ was?

He came to himself with a jolt, in time to hear a visitor with a familiar accent comment that he was from Nevada, and had never seen anything like this, but that he had heard a definition of the difference between the British and the Americans being ‘that you think a hundred miles is a long way...’

“And you think that a hundred years is a long time,” agreed Giles, smiling. “It’s true, or as true as these glib definitions ever are. I lived for a while in California, and I never got used to how far anything was, or how new it was, relatively speaking. The pre-history was interesting, of course, but pre-history always is.”

Yeah, because it came complete with demons. Xander shivered, even as they stepped through an archway into another courtyard, with a waiting stable boy, ready to take them to talk about livestock.

Xander refused to let that wig him, but he did glance back, to see Giles standing in the doorway, and Giles, for once, was looking at him.

Later, he followed the crowd across the inner courtyard, to a wooden stage, on which a girl with blonde hair clubbed back into a braid was setting up a display of armour. Somehow he was unsurprised to see Giles striding across the grass towards her. He’d lost the big coloured tunic he’d been wearing to show them around, and...

“That guy’s hot,” observed a woman four feet away; Xander shot her a hard look. Her husband said something Xander didn’t catch.

“What? He is. Men in tights are a good idea, we should have more of them. And the boots. Like the boots. And the loose shirt. Wonder what he looks like without the shirt.”

“Mu-um,” whined an embarrassed teenager. Apparently some things weren’t different between the UK and the US. The ability of your parents to humiliate you _utterly_ in public was universal.

“What? I’m only saying.” She smirked at her husband. “I saw you, eyeing up the serving wench, so I get to look at the knight. It’s only window shopping. I want to see him fight, later.”

“Huh?” said the teenager. The accent was different but the intonation could have been Xander himself a few years ago, or any one of his friends.

“Didn’t you look at the posters? He’s one of the guys who do the jousting. That’s Wicked Sir Rupert. He and Sir James are going to fight at three. That’s why that big square’s all fenced off on the flat bit down there.”

Xander squirreled that piece of information away for later. In front of him, Giles hopped up onto the stage, and exchanged a word with the blonde girl; who came to the front and waited for quiet.

“Welcome once again to Hoofbeat History at FitzAllan Castle; I hope you’re enjoying yourselves?” She waited for the murmur of agreement, and smiled at them. “My name is Jehan, and I’m Sir Rupert’s squire.” She cocked an eyebrow in a manner she could only have learned from Giles himself: “I’m definitely a boy called Jehan, and not a history student called Joanne. Definitely. My job is to look after Sir Rupert’s armour, and his horse – well, I can palm off the horse on somebody else, but I’m the one who gets into trouble if it’s not done right. I follow Sir Rupert, I look after him, sometimes I fight at his side, and if it all goes horribly wrong I either arrange his ransom or arrange his funeral. I started off when I was seven or eight as his page, fetched and carried for him and for the squire he had then, served him at table, looked after his clothes, that sort of thing. He saw to my education, and trained me enough that when I was fourteen I was promoted to be his squire. I still looked after him, but now I was in charge of his weaponry, and when he thought I knew enough I was allowed to fight beside him. If I’m good at it, eventually I’ll get to be a knight myself.

“Meanwhile, I’m going to show you a knight’s armour and how it goes on.” She paused for breath and indicated the stand beside her. “Now obviously, armour changed a lot over the course of history depending on what materials were available to make it, and what weapons it was designed to protect you against. Are you expecting to meet a man armed with long pointy things? Or with sharp slashy things? Is he going to hit you with something heavy on a chain? Is he going to fire at you? There’s a clean and identifiable line of generation all the way from the earliest armour, which is anything hard, tied on with hide cords, all the way to the modern Kevlar flak jacket. Today we’re going to aim somewhere around the middle of the fifteenth century, and I’m going to arm Sir Rupert for an ugly little war.”

She turned to her stand of kit, and picked off the first piece.

“The first thing he needs is an arming doublet. Something not often mentioned about armour is that it’s incredibly uncomfortable, and if it’s hit, it rings like a bell, which isn’t so good for the person inside. Add into that the fact that if you’re going to be able to move at all in it, it needs to be jointed, and joints are vulnerable. So Sir Rupert has a padded coat with extra protection where the joints will be.”

She held it up, and Giles shrugged it on, allowing her to pull the fastenings tight. She held up the ends of the laces.

“These are called ‘points’ and they’re used to attach almost everything else.”

And then she was off: the differences between chain mail and plate mail, pauldrons, vambraces, gauntlets, greaves and cuisses, and other things Xander had never even thought of. Giles stood, allowing himself to be turned and pushed as various things were put on him, and intervening only once, when as he was settling a sort of shell affair around his thigh, Joanne behind him lost her grip on what she had called a cuirass, and Xander thought of as a breastplate, and dropped it. Even then, he didn’t look round: he simply said, calmly, but clearly, “If you’ve dented that, Jehan, I’ll have you whipped.”

Xander shuddered, and oddly, given his experiences, it wasn’t with fear; Joanne winked at the crowd. “He always says that, never carries through.”

It was a moment or two before Xander picked up the thread again; he came back in at an explanation of the sallet and scaled bevor, followed by the various sorts of swords. Shields, it seemed, had fallen out of favour other than for the tourney; a good fighter could use the mace or ravensbill or halberd.

Xander was prepared to bet that Giles could use them all.

“Now, the trouble is, having got all this kit onto him, he wants to drop back a century for the joust and wear chain mail, so I’ve got to get it all off again. By the way, think about the weight; people in the Middle Ages were a little smaller than we are now, but not actually that much, and the weight of a full suit of armour is slightly less than we expect a modern soldier to be able to carry. Nonetheless, knight is not a career choice for anybody not prepared to be very uncomfortable a lot of the time. It’s not totally incapacitating; Sir Rupert here can run in his armour, although it has a very bad effect on his temper when he has to, and his page and his squire tend to make themselves scarce. But if you think about it, he _has_ to be able to move freely, or he can’t fight. The story about a knight having to be put on his horse using a crane, that’s not true. If it were true, an unhorsed knight would be like a tortoise: put him on his back and kill him at leisure. It was made up, I believe, by Mark Twain, and what anybody thought _he_ would know about it...”

As she spoke, she was speedily removing the plate armour, and replacing it with a sort of flexible metal shirt affair, over which she flung a bright green quilted garment with a white deer on the chest and back.

“The tabard allows Sir Rupert’s men to see him and identify him in the mêlée; killing your own boss by accident has never gone down well. The hind is Sir Rupert’s emblem and all the members of his household bear it.” She shrugged into a short coat of her own, decorated the same way, and as she did so, one of the guides, dressed in dull browns and greys but with an overtunic showing the deer, led Ivo to the edge of the dais. He too had a green and white cloth over his back, under the saddle that Xander had watched Giles fit the month before; the man held the stirrup while Giles mounted, and then inconspicuously slid a hand inside some of the straps holding everything in place, plainly checking that nothing would slip.

“So there’s Sir Rupert, ladies and gentlemen, protected as far as we can do it.” She handed up his helmet, and picked up her own sword as he put it on. “And now, if you would like to make your way down to the tiltyard, we’ll see just how far that is.” She grinned at the crowd.

“Sir Rupert’s going to fight.”


	37. Xander 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Just jousting. Oh, and Xander gets snubbed.

And was that ever... thrilling and terrifying all at once. They had all walked down to the fenced off field behind Giles and his squire and his man-at-arms, collecting other costumed people as they went; when they got there, more of the Hoofbeat History people were acting as stewards, directing the crowds around the perimeter. At the far end was another horse, dapple grey, with a red cloth under its saddle, and the man who had come for Giles sitting on its back. His surcoat was red too, with some sort of bird on it, and from the look of things, he’d been doing the same show for another group somewhere else in the castle.

There was a sudden and rather tinny fanfare from the loudspeakers set on the corner posts; above the crowd, at the top of the stone steps, the massive castle doors opened slowly on a group of people in richly coloured costumes.

“Make way!” bellowed somebody through the sound system. “Make way for their Graces the Duke and Duchess! Make way!”

The crowd parted rather unevenly and the parade made its way slowly towards the field, and to an enclosed dais draped in coloured cloth, behind which Xander could see a sound board.

The whole thing was corny: the Duke and Duchess of whatever, and their retinue, one of whom managed the sound system while another stood at a microphone to make the announcements and to work the crowd up. The backstory was thin, to say the least: Sir James and Sir Rupert, one of them the hero and one, apparently, the villain. Xander thought, though, that Giles was enjoying himself, sneering at the crowd, and exchanging insults with Sir James.

He could see now what Giles had been doing with the horse in the field at home. The ring catching thing was obvious once he had context for it, and Giles and Ivo were good, but the other man was better; Xander thought that Giles’ left-handedness probably counted against him, because it was all set up right-handed. Then there was a frantic – or so it seemed – gallop round and round the arena, striking at their own version of Mr Woodman; it was only on the third circuit that Xander worked out that somehow Giles was making Ivo _appear_ to be galloping flat out, with dangerous handbrake turns, when he wasn’t actually going fast at all.

The guy doing the announcements told the crowd disapprovingly that Sir Rupert was winning; down near the front, Xander could see Jehan working the watchers up to stamp and cheer, and over on the other side, Sir James’ squire was doing the same thing. Partisan cheering? Xander could totally do that.

Then there was what he thought of as proper jousting: long lances, and the two horses thundering at each other on either side of a fence. Wrong-handed or not, Giles was _really_ good at this: he hit the other guy every time, and was only hit twice himself, and it was Sir James who came off his horse. Giles swung Ivo around, and charged at the man on the ground, with various hangers-on running to intervene, and shouting, and accusations of ungentlemanly conduct, but Xander, who had seen him work the horse fast through a course of half a dozen things to be dodged around, could see that nobody was in any danger. It still looked scary, though, and Sir James’ half of the crowd was booing and hissing while Giles sneered at them and made like a pantomime villain.

The horses were drawn aside, and the swordsmen came out, green against red in a carefully staged, but noisy and obviously not entirely safe, fight. This time Sir James’ men drove back Giles’ men at arms; directly in front of Xander, a guy who looked about his own age got a crack on the upper arm from an attacker, that clearly numbed him from shoulder to wrist. Xander sympathised; he’d felt that himself, more than once, in a fight, and he was amused to find himself reassured when, at the conclusion of the fight, the attacker came over to touch gloves with the walking wounded, and exchange good-humoured words.

Giles got another go then, but this was a demonstration: the announcer described briefly how a knight’s horse was trained, and what it did, and Giles showed off his horse. Xander couldn’t call it anything else: he _knew_ he couldn’t be seeing what he thought he was seeing, but it looked as if Ivo did everything and Giles just sat there, looking straight in front of him, never moving. It _couldn’t_ be right: Giles _had_ to be telling the horse what to do, but Xander couldn’t see how. Ivo moved, delicately for such a sturdy animal, forward and back, left and right, including a long parade down the arena in which he faced forward but moved half sideways. One of the men-at-arms came forward with a sword and shield, and he and Giles had a quick and noisy fight, in which Giles had less advantage from being mounted than Xander would have expected, because of the necessity for him to defend Ivo as well as himself. Then Giles persuaded Ivo into the exercises Xander had watched: Ivo settled his weight back onto flexed hind legs and half reared, holding the position with his forefeet off the ground for several seconds before dropping back down. Giles sent him forward, and he gathered himself and leaped, his hind legs slamming out behind him, while the announcer explained that the horse would fight, striking at an attacker in front, or kicking at one behind.

“Almost certainly not true,” said a girl to Xander's left; she blushed and shrugged in embarrassment when he caught her eye.

“Isn’t it?” He had thought it was true; he remembered it from movies. She wrinkled her nose.

“Probably not. My professor of mediaeval history goes bug-eyed and apoplectic when you mention most of these re-enactment groups. She says this one’s the only one that gets the history more or less accurate,” yeah, that sounded like Giles – he wouldn’t agree to do it _at all_ unless they were doing it right, “but she says there wasn’t much fighting actually done from horseback. You rode your horse to battle and then somebody kept it safely out of the way at the back until you needed it again. Mounted fighting was mostly for show, at jousts, she says, and in any event, a horse leaping about like that was likely to be killed under you because it was exposing its belly. Still, it looks impressive, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose that’s why they do it,” agreed Xander, his eyes wandering back to Giles. It _was_ impressive.

“And he’s a really good horseman, with a really good horse. That stuff’s filthy difficult to do. James and Rupert aren’t the only knights, there are about six of them who work the circuit, and my sister, she’s the one playing his squire, she says he’s the best of them by far at anything on the horse, and she rides herself so she should know.”

“I’ve seen them practise,” admitted Xander. “It’s a lot of work.”

She nodded, her eyes back on Giles, and Xander felt another of those disconcerting flares of jealousy when she added, “He must be pretty fit, too. Well, he’s pretty fit in both senses.”

He made a strangled sound, and she smiled at him. “You wouldn’t see it.”

Oh, he would.

He was terrified when they finished the display with a full-scale mêlée: Giles and the other guy on the grey horse, and about twenty men-at-arms and hangers on, in what seemed to be a pitched battle. He spotted Jehan – Joanne – who would, he thought, have made a good Slayer; she was quick and strong, and she seemed to be taking very seriously her place at Giles’... she had his back, he suddenly realised, and how _dared_ she, that was _his_ place!

He heard himself make a small terrified sound in his throat when Giles was unhorsed and disappeared into the heaving masses of people with swords and shields, and horses with iron shoes and clumsy feet, but a couple of minutes later the fight broke up, and Giles reappeared, dusty and working his shoulders, but on his own feet, and capable of being boosted back into Ivo’s saddle by one of the men-at-arms. He and the other guy took a fast turn around the arena, the horses racing, the riders doing some fancy swinging swordwork, while the audience cheered and applauded and Xander tried to get his heart-rate back down to something that wouldn’t land him in the hospital.

By five o’clock his feet hurt. He’d been walking most of the day, moving from the archery demonstration to the falconry and from the jester to the lute player, and all the time thinking about how much work Giles had put in to what he had been doing, and trying to avoid thinking, first of all, that Giles was _hot_ in armour and swinging a sword on a big black horse, and secondly... Secondly, how hurt he was at being excluded from what Giles did. If he had known, he would have wanted to be Giles’ squire. Once he climbed back on the bus at the castle gates, he sat, trying to ignore a small and fidgety child armed with a plastic sword and shield, and blessed with a peculiarly piercing voice in which he was assuring his dad that the knights were just sooooo cool – with which Xander agreed. His dad gave Xander a rather wan smile. “Don’t shout, please, Declan.”

“I’m going to be a knight when I grow up.”

Xander smiled involuntarily and the child saw him; the lower lip began to protrude. “I am so. I’m going to be a knight.”

Xander grinned at the embarrassed father. “Me too, kid. I thought Sir Rupert was totally cool.”

The child inspected him disapprovingly. “Are you from America?” It was the local accent, but there seemed to be more Rs in that than altogether necessary. Xander nodded meekly; plainly it wasn’t anything to be proud of. The child sniffed, even more disapprovingly. “You can’t be a knight, then. You don’t have them.” He thought carefully, while his dad cast Xander an apologetic look, and Xander tried not to laugh. The child brightened. “You can be a cowboy.” He nodded, seriously, pleased at having found a compromise. It wasn’t as _good_ , his expression conveyed, but better than nothing and probably all Xander deserved. “You don’t get a sword, but you can have a gun. Have you got a gun?”

Xander admitted in a strangled voice that he didn’t have a gun; he evidently fell in the child’s estimation.

It was a long walk home from the town to his tent; his feet were more than sore by the time he crested the hill. It was probably fortunate that the horse trailer arrived after he did: he wasn’t certain that he could have seen it go past without either shrieking abuse at Giles – and the man he didn’t know – for not stopping for him, or whining embarrassingly that it wasn’t fair. He had enjoyed his day; he just would have enjoyed it much more without a long walk front and rear.

This time, as soon as he saw the way Giles was moving, he came to the trailer, taking Ivo’s lead rope from the other man’s hand and heading for the stable. Giles came after him.

“I’ve done his water bucket but I don’t know how much of the brown stuff to feed him,” said Xander, matter of factly. “Does he have to be brushed tonight, or will it wait until tomorrow?”

His feet had to be done at once, and Xander didn’t know how to do that, but he decided, watching it, that he was going to learn, simply because Giles was too stiff and sore to bend that way. Then the brush had to be run over all the places the tack had been, or apparently the sweat would make him itch, but a proper clean would wait until the morning.

From this close, Xander wondered if it actually was an effort for Giles not to say ‘thank you’ – he didn’t – because after all, he had always been totally Polite Guy. Even when... Xander could remember them trying to work out what was going down with Marcie Ross, and Cordelia bursting into the library; Giles had politely set a chair for her, as if she was somebody important.

“Giles...”

Giles stopped, his back turned.

“Can’t we... are you...”

He made a weird gesture, pointless, because Giles wasn’t even looking. “ You know what? Never mind. That was real cool today.”

Now Giles did look, and Xander thought that yeah, it _did_ cost him something not to say ‘thank you’, and suddenly he was angry. Yeah, so maybe Giles didn’t want to talk about Coblan and about Buffy and stuff like that, but he could manage a plain ‘thank you’ when Xander passed him something or paid him a compliment.

But even as he searched for the words for that, Giles was walking away.


	38. Giles 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Depressed Giles. Oblivious Xander.

Getting out of bed was a real effort. If it hadn't been for the horse, he didn’t know that he would have bothered. He had been an early riser ever since he had given up joyriding and drug-taking and demon-raising in his twenties and gone crawling back first to his father and then to the Council. Ripper had no objection to spending the day in bed, with or without a companion, but Rupert, returning to training, had made the most of the early morning, using the time first of all to get himself physically back into shape, and then later to restore the edge to his intellectual skills by intense and uninterrupted study.

It had become a habit and an odd one for him to have formed; he wasn’t at his best in the mornings, and he did his finest intellectual work at night, but his fitness regimen accommodated itself to early mornings, since he could use the gym without waiting for equipment, or run outdoors before the pavements turned into an obstacle course. The Watchers’ research facilities remained open night and day and again, the early Watcher didn’t need to give up desirable tomes to more senior readers, and laid claim to the most convenient workspace. He would have preferred to have stayed in bed, but duty demanded that he learn to make the best use of his time, and Giles had learned to do his duty.

In Sunnydale, half a term – he disliked the word ‘semester’ although he couldn’t have said why – showed him that it was possible to do eight hours’ work in the library in five hours _provided_ he was given peace to get on with it. The requirements of a Slayer who refused point blank to consider early rising herself caused him to rearrange his day; his library duties were most easily carried out before the school filled with noisy and importunate students. The working day fell earlier than it would have done in a British school, which did mean that ‘before work’ meant largely ‘after demon-slaying’. It was not unusual for him to return to the school after patrol, to do his paperwork, reshelve books, and generally make like a librarian, before snatching an hour or two’s sleep, sometimes at his desk if he didn’t have enough time to go home. Then he would cruise through the normal working day, fitting in Watcher research and library demands and snatching occasional moments for himself in the late afternoon and early evening until his schedule refilled with training with Buffy and more research and patrols and demons – and a late return home, a few snatched hours of sleep and the whole thing again.

He had, in fact, been running a sleep deficit, he thought, all the time he lived in America; on his return he had suffered badly with what he had at first assumed to be jet lag, except that it lasted for six or seven weeks. He had found himself nodding off at unexpected times, until his body settled back into the routines he had learned: early rising, morning exercise, afternoon paperwork and short evenings. Even now, it wasn’t uncommon for him to nap for an hour in the afternoon, if he had committed himself to going out at night. He couldn’t afford much, either financially or by way of time, for leisure pursuits; the weekly trip to sing in the pub was, he told himself, as much of an outing as he needed, and the occasional hack on Ivo through the local forestry land, with Callum the ranger turning a blind eye (the expense of a permit to ride was one he couldn’t justify, but he disliked riding on the tarmac road) counted both as exercise and as relaxation.

He didn’t want to get up. Nothing actually hurt, provided he stayed warm and relaxed in bed, but he was more than aware that he had exerted himself heavily the day before, that he had come off the horse, and that he was not a young man. Once he got up, his back would stiffen; almost certainly he had a fine new crop of bruises.

He didn’t want to face another day. Every morning he thought this; every morning he rose because the horse could not be left unattended. Even on Ivo’s days off, when Giles turned him into the paddock, he would need attention, and the day after a joust, he would need to be checked carefully for lameness, allowed to rest for most of the day and exercised lightly late on, enough to shake any remaining stiffness out of him.

It was daylight; he had no excuse not to get up, and the horse required to be fed and turned out. If Giles didn’t get out of bed and attend to it, who would? He carefully turned his mind away from the niggling hint that apart from a horse, there was no living thing in the world to care if he never got out of bed again. Even Murna, who was, he thought, rather fond of him, came out of the water only when he called for her; she would never come looking for him.

God, he was lonely. It was his own fault, and he knew it. His friends... as a child he had made few friends, discouraged from it by his father’s insistence that even when he was very young, he needed to have his mind on Watcher business. Having such a large part of his life that could not be shared didn’t make for easy relationships with his peers. He was no more sociable when he started Watcher training, since already he was fretting to escape. He didn’t want to spend time with other trainees; he wanted to run.

When he did run, of course, he had friends... of a sort. And they were all dead, all but Ethan. In some ways he wanted Ethan back, wanted that easy friendship, the joyous physicality of it, the thrills, the companion who understood...

No, he told himself, fiercely. No, now that he knew where it led, he didn’t want that any longer. What he wanted was the way it had made him feel: part of a group, accepted, liked. Even if it had been possible to have Ethan back, the Rupert who had loved Ethan, loved the life and the sorceries and the drink and the drugs and the sheer fun and excitement, that Rupert was gone. He had grown up, all at once and late, and there was no going back.

After Eyghon, there had still been few friends. He had gone back to the Council, gone back into training, but the other trainees avoided him. He was known to be dangerous, unreliable, and more to the point, unpopular with the Council. Spending social time with Rupert Giles was likely to taint a trainee in the eyes of his superiors and all the novice Watchers knew it. He was a pariah all the way to the point at which Merrick died and he was sent to America.

There had been politics at the back of that; there had been a deliberate attempt to make him fail by sending him – a middle aged man – to deal with a Slayer who was a stranger to him (most Watchers knew their Slayers ahead of time), in a foreign country, and one so far from his experience. When they had sent Wesley to replace him, he had known that Wesley’s career would be no more successful than his own. Wesley was also being set up to fail, and for all his brash arrogance, Wesley too had known it. Giles had been too old and Wesley too young for them to have spoken freely about it and formed an alliance; Giles wondered vaguely, as he made his breakfast, and as he had wondered many times before, what difference it might have made if they _had_ done so, but Giles had been held up to Wesley as a Dreadful Warning for so long that no overture on Giles’ part would have been seen by Wesley as anything other than a trap. Travers, and Caddick and Bethel, and several others, had wanted power in the Council; some of the old Watcher families had wanted to wrest control from others. There was nothing new in that: surnames on the Council tended to last a century and then be replaced as power ebbed and flowed. Giles was well aware that a good half of his father’s diatribes against him were due to his knowledge that after three generations, the Giles power base was a spent force. Perhaps if his father had been an active Watcher, perhaps if Giles himself had married and had children...

Perhaps not.

But there were no friends on the Council for Rupert Giles. His father despised him, so his father’s followers avoided him. His enemy’s enemy... remained his enemy, he feared; the other factions viewed him as dangerously unpredictable.

He had ended up with a motley group of friends mostly less than half his age: his Slayer, a witch, a werewolf, a cheerleader. A techno-pagan, dead. Occasionally a souled vampire. Even more occasionally, a chipped vampire. And Xander. Odd friends for a middle-aged Englishman, he had often thought, and he had been right: push _had_ come to shove and they had closed ranks with him on the outside. Not a new experience, but one he had finally decided that he absolutely could not endure again. Willow might send him all the emails she liked – he was becoming more than proficient with filters and blocking software, but the list of addresses from which he would not accept mails because they were all from Willow was now larger than his address book. Buffy might write to him if she wanted; he wouldn’t read her letters. He recognised her handwriting even when she tried to disguise it; he cast an identification spell as a matter of course on any unexpected mail, and her move to typed envelopes had served no purpose.

Xander could live in a tent at his door – and Giles was prepared to admit that he hadn't expected him to last this long – but Giles wasn’t inviting him in. Hadn't asked him here, didn’t need him, didn’t want him. Didn’t actually know what he was _doing_ here. Couldn’t work out what he was hoping to achieve. He had been afraid to begin with that Xander was going to nag him, to talk at him, to tell him that he _had to_ forgive Buffy and Willow, and Xander himself. To talk on and _on_ the way Xander always had. When Xander didn’t, when he simply hung around and _watched_ , and then began to see what needed to be done and to do it, Giles completely failed to understand. Sometimes he regretted the loss of all that Xander might have been, not to Giles himself but to Buffy or – he never liked to think of it, but every Watcher knew the life expectancy of a Slayer – to Buffy’s successor.

No, not sometimes. Often.

Sometimes he did regret the loss of Xander himself. Once or twice he found himself regretting the loss of Kay, and drove the thought away from him. None of that had been real and therefore none of it was worth regretting.

Ivo was already outside his stable; there was a wheelbarrow full of dirty straw ready to go to the muck heap, and the horse was tethered to the ring on the doorpost. Giles, without comment, unfastened the rope and retied it into a quick release knot; Xander seemed about to say something, and Giles turned away, not hurrying, just... just getting on with what needed to be done.

He filled the haynet and the buckets, pushing Ivo’s soaked pellets under his nose. The horse worked hard and went through a lot of feed; it was just Giles’ luck, he thought ruefully, to have bought a horse with a high metabolic rate who fell out of condition easily. The cob he’d owned when he was a teenager had to be watched constantly to prevent her stealing food and overeating; Ivo tended, if anything, to undereat. Even with a day on pasture in prospect, he needed to be fed. Still, the haynet would keep him quiet while Giles groomed him.

He ran his hand down a foreleg, and Ivo obligingly picked up his foot to be cleaned out. He would need shod again before the next Hoofbeat outing, Giles thought, and mentally allocated the funds for it.

“I would do that if you showed me how.”

He set the hoof back to the ground and stepped to Ivo’s hind leg, putting his elbow out warningly. Ivo was cheeky; if Giles didn’t poke him in the stifle, he would lean over while his hind feet were being picked out, and try to rest his weight on Giles’ shoulder.

“Giles...”

He ducked under the lead rope and lifted the other forefoot. Xander fidgeted, and followed him to Ivo’s hindquarters.

“Giles, I could...”

Elbow out, hand to the cannon bone, hoof in his hand.

_“Giles!”_

The foot was clean enough; he let it down gently. “Don’t snap,” he said quietly. “If you startle him, I could get kicked.” He tossed the hoofpick into the bucket of grooming kit that Xander had already laid out for him, and picked up a brush.

“Giles, are you _ever_ going to give this up?”

He didn’t answer.

“Giles, for... Look, I get that we screwed up. That _I_ screwed up. I get that we made a complete mess of your life. I _get_ it. I get that you don’t forgive me, you haven’t forgiven me, you’re never likely to forgive me. I just don’t get why you’re being so stubborn about letting me _do_ anything. I saw you yesterday; I saw that for all you were making it out to be total fun, that was a load of real hard work. And I know, I saw, I know that it’s not just on the day that it’s hard work, I know it’s hard work to stay in shape and to keep the horse in shape and to train him for what he has to do. I get that there’s a lot of work and most of it I can’t do. So why won’t you let me do the stuff I _can_ do? I clean up around him, I’m not scared of him,” and there was an unspoken but perfectly audible ‘any more’ in that, “I could do brushing him and scraping out his feet and whatever if you taught me how. I’m not thinking,” and it came out perhaps a little more bitterly than either of them expected, “that it would mean you had forgiven me. Why won’t you let me do it?”

He was silent. Actually, when it came down to it, he didn’t have a good answer for that. Well, or any answer at all, good or otherwise. He ran the brush down Ivo’s flank.

“I’d have thought that...” Xander trailed away; it sounded as if he was thinking better of what he had to say but then he made an odd, irritated sound, and went on anyway.

“I know that when _you_ screwed up your life, you and Ethan and your friends, and it wasn’t just _your_ life, was it? It was Philip’s and Deidre’s and Randall’s,” and yes, there was an unspoken ‘not that Randall had much life left’, “you got to go back. The Council took you back. So why won’t you...”

He rounded on Xander, his temper finally getting the better of him. “And I wasn’t forgiven either! You _saw_ what they did to me, and it didn’t include either redemption or forgiveness! I was always Giles the demon raiser, Giles the unreliable, Giles the expendable. Yes, they took me back, but it was at a price, and I’m not sure it wasn’t more than I should have been willing to pay. I’ve _never_ been forgiven and I never will be now.”

Xander, with greater skill than Giles would ever had expected of him, shifted his ground. “Then I would have thought you’d have been _more_ sympathetic to people trying to put things right after they screw up, because you’ve been there! You must _believe_ in redemption if you’re complaining about missing out on it – so why is it so... Why won’t you even _speak_ to Buffy or Willow? Is it _so_ unthinkable that... is it so hard to believe that they _want_ to put things right? That they know they screwed up too? Why is it so impossible for you to reach some... some understanding with them? Why will you not give them what you wanted the Council to give you?”

He was breathing hard, and Ivo was beginning to fidget nervously; he rested a hand on the horse’s neck, but which of them was calming the other he couldn’t have said. “Why is this about Buffy? I thought it was about you.”

Xander’s shocked expression was comical. “ _Me?_ ”

He was irritated. “You were wittering about wanting to work.”

“Oh... oh, that’s different. That’s... I told you, I get that you aren’t gonna forgive me. I got you into this mess, and I’m real sorry but there’s not much I can do to put things right. I was just thinking, you’re having to work real hard at all of this,” and he gestured vaguely around at the stable and the field, “and about the only thing I _can_ do is make some of the work easier. But Buffy... she’s your Slayer, she still thinks she’s _your_ Slayer. And Willow, she... O.K., you and them, you can still do stuff, good stuff, if you can only get past this. I know you don’t want me involved, and I don’t think, no way do I think that I have a right to be involved any more, not that I ever did, have a right , I mean...” 

It was turning into purest Xander-babble, and Xander obviously knew it; he swallowed hard and went on, rather more calmly. “You and Buffy, you and Willow, you can have some sort of future. You and Buffy, it matters, Giles. I know you always wanted... you wanted to make everything right for her, you wanted to make everything easy for her, no, not easy maybe, that’s the wrong word, yeah? But you wanted her to be the best Slayer, the _safest_ Slayer, and you could still have that. And Willow, you were always teaching her, you and she had so much. She’s got plans, we know that, she’s got big plans for her life and you were always part of them. The three of you, you had _ambitions_. And yeah, I totally get that I screwed them up and it’s not like I was part of them anyway, but...” His expression was shifting from determination to confusion and discomfort in the face of what Giles could tell was his own look of sheerest, coldest rage.

“You... you stupid boy. You _stupid_ boy.” His voice was low and vicious and at the same time, at the back of his mind, he heard Philip, who had always been the one to quote from old British sitcoms. He was shaking with fury, far beyond the point at which he remembered that he had nothing to say to Xander. “You weren’t part of my ambitions? You were _all_ of my ambitions! My ambitions for Buffy were that she _not be dead_. I worked myself into the ground trying to keep her alive. Yes, I would have liked her to be more academic. I would have understood her better if she had been more intellectual. But she’s not, is she? She’s quick and she’s street-smart, I suppose, to an extent, but she’s not fit to be let out on her own. She _needs_ somebody to look after her, she needs a, a, a support mechanism. I didn’t understand that to begin with because it went against everything I had ever been taught as a Watcher. She showed me, she showed me that she needed you all, and I bent to what she needed, I learned to keep the Slayer alive with a team.”

Xander... he almost thought that Xander whimpered. “There was more to it than that, Giles, you know there was. You loved Buffy. She wasn’t just the Slayer to you.”

“I loved her,” he agreed coldly. “And because I loved her, I had no ambitions for her other than that she should be happy _and that she should not be dead_. Because she was the Slayer – and she was a good Slayer – there was nothing more that I wanted her to be, nothing that I thought she should be, unless it was something she wanted.” He dragged in a long breath. “And Willow... Willow had ambitions of her own. She didn’t need me to have any ambitions for her, not that I had any right to have anyway. She’s not my responsibility, not my, my... I taught her what I could, which wasn’t much, not because I wanted anything for her but because _that was what she wanted_. But I’m not a great mage so I couldn’t be all the teacher she wanted. I gave her what I could because she wanted it, not because I wanted it for her. The _only_ person for whom I harboured ambitions was _you_.”

He was shaking; Ivo thrust his nose hard between them and stepped into the gap, taking up the slack on his lead rope. Giles patted him perfunctorily and moved away, able at least to think that however angry he was with Xander, the horse had done nothing to irritate him.

Sometimes he felt that Ivo was the last individual in the world, including himself, with whom he was not irritated.

“Giles... I don’t understand,” said Xander meekly, following him. “I know you always thought I could have done better at school if I’d tried. But, but if you didn’t, if it wasn’t like that for Willow I don’t see how it was for me. I’m not a witch or a Slayer or anything that matters. I was _never_ going to be anything except a Scooby, or a carpenter. A hanger-on. I never wanted to be... well, maybe never is a bit strong, but I knew it wasn’t, I couldn’t be anything that needed exam grades or anything. So why would you have had ambitions for me? To do what? To be what?”

He couldn’t believe that the idiot boy still couldn’t see it.

“To be a Watcher.”


	39. Giles 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Talking! Talking happens!

It was rare for anybody to silence Xander completely.

Giles turned away, and picked up the brush again; Ivo, who clearly knew that something was going on, pushed his nose into Giles’ hand and jerked his head uneasily. Giles started again at the top of his neck, running the brush down towards his shoulder, over and over. He heard Xander make an odd crowing sound, as if Giles’ last words had been a blow and Xander had been winded.

“A _Watcher?_ ”

It didn’t require an answer and he didn’t dignify it with one. His anger was dissipating, morphing back to the more or less constant, but low level, irritation that he had told himself he felt when he saw the boy.

No, not a boy. Xander was a long way past childhood. That was the source of some of his anger: that Xander, that Buffy and Willow as well, still had moments of childishness in which common sense went by the board in the face of whatever new thing they wanted. _Like you don’t do that still, Ripper_ , his conscience mocked him. _What you object to is that they get away with it and you don’t._

“Giles, for real? A _Watcher?_ ”

He was exhausted again; he knew perfectly well that much of his tiredness could be put down to low level depression, insufficient for him to seek medical assistance, but enough to make life... difficult.

“Why not?”

Ivo’s ears went back and forward; anyone who knew horses could tell that this one – and Giles thought that his gelding was unusually intelligent, even for a Friesian – was listening to the conversation. Not understanding it: Giles anthropomorphised as much as any animal owner, and he certainly reckoned that Ivo understood a good deal of what he, Giles, said to him, but the technicalities of this one would be beyond him. Nonetheless, the horse was listening, and probably getting as much of the emotional undertone as either Giles or Xander.

“Why not? Why _not?_ Well, how about the not speaking seventeen languages – like you - and reading thirty more – like you? How about the not being a swordsman, and a crossbow expert, and an axeman – like you – and not knowing about the magical Stone of This and the Amulet of That – like you? How about not having enough brains to feed a zombie army for a month – like you?”

“You do exaggerate,” snapped Giles, crossly. “I don’t speak half that many languages, and even if I did, most Watchers aren’t linguists. The best ones are polymaths; most aren’t even that. You could learn. You _were_ learning. And you can’t have it both ways. You and... and the Slayer and... you always went on and bloody _on_ about how all the things I wanted you to do and try and learn about were old-fashioned and unnecessary, that you could do it all on a wing and a prayer and with no research other than fifteen minutes with a computer. And now, how amazing, you tell me you can’t? I told you when you came here, your problem is that you’re bloody lazy. You’re not stupid, you’ve just got into the habit of using that as an excuse to do no work.”

Xander looked pointedly around him, at the neatly whitewashed walls, the freestanding barbecue, the new fencing, and Giles snorted. “So you prefer physical work to intellectual. I prefer intellectual, but I don’t think that gives me the right to skip out on the physical. I don’t _enjoy_ going out to run, specially not at my age. I don’t _enjoy_ spending bloody hours doing press-ups and sit-ups and the rest of it. But it’s part of my...” and he heard his voice falter, swallowed, and went on strongly. “It’s part of my job. Once it was part of my job as a Watcher; now it’s part of my job as an actor. So I do it, and I try to do it without complaining.”

“Yeah, but...”

Giles snorted again. “Your favourite start to a sentence, isn’t it? ‘Yes, _but_...’ followed by ten minutes on why you couldn’t or wouldn’t – it was usually ‘wouldn’t’, although you always dressed it up as ‘couldn’t’ – do whatever I thought was necessary.”

“Yeah, _but_ ,” said Xander loudly, “O.K., maybe I could learn the swordfighting and stuff. Maybe. You learned much younger than me, you had most of this down by the time you went off to go demon-raising, yeah? But O.K., I’ll give you that one. Maybe. If you can get yourself into shape _now_ to go fighting on a horse, which you never did in California, maybe I could learn that. But the languages and the research and stuff? No way, Giles. You always said I didn’t even speak English right; I failed every exam in French I ever took until they wouldn’t let me back in the class.”

He shook his head. “You were a perfectly competent researcher, and you – all of you – always assured me that there was nothing you couldn't find on the internet. I’ve had to learn to research that way, and I’ll admit that you are largely correct. Since there is always more material to be reviewed than there is time to review it, I’ll admit, against my inclination, that there’s probably enough available electronically to go on with. You always told me so, but you never showed me; you never actually _did_ the research that way to prove it to me. The catch isn’t that you _can’t_ do it; it’s that you _don’t_. You won’t. It still takes hours, it’s just spent on a different format, and it’s still boring, and you always had old Giles to do the boring stuff, didn’t you?”

He could see from his expression that Xander was allowing the truth of it; he could also see that Xander, rather than snapping back and turning it into a quarrel, was trying to apply himself. It had to be admitted: Xander in the aftermath of Coblan was not what he had been before.

“’Kay. I don’t think I agree with you, but I get what you’re saying, and we just won’t go into how much you’ve changed, right?”

“I had to,” he said harshly. The forced sale of his books still rankled, and Xander nodded.

“I get that, and... yeah, I’m sorry about it, but it’s not what we’re talking about right now. Right now, we’re talking about me. So you think – you thought that I could learn the fighting? And you thought I could do the research. For Buffy? ’Cos you were always very definite that you were her Watcher, and nobody else got that job.”

He looked away. “I... was thinking partly of her, yes, if I should be killed.”

Xander's silence was telling; he looked back. “We all knew that there was the risk that somebody would be killed. Any one of us, including the Slayer herself. If I died, the Council would have sent another Watcher.”

“And we all saw how well that went.”

“Indeed. Wesley was not a good choice for Bu... for the current Slayer. A traditional Watcher isn’t what she relates to.”

Xander nodded thoughtfully. Giles went on.

“The other possibility was that it would be the Slayer who was killed. In that case, in all likelihood, I would be dead too.”

Xander winced. “If you weren’t, would you... would you get the next Slayer?”

It was a fair question. “There’s no definite protocol. Sometimes the Watcher takes on the new Slayer; sometimes a new Watcher is called. They would have asked me if I was willing. I would probably have said no.” He handed over the stiff brush and indicated that Xander should start on Ivo’s other side; he himself picked up the soft brush and began to raise a gloss on the black flank.

“Well, they wouldn’t have asked me! So...”

He shook his head. “I was thinking for the long term. Times have changed. Bu... This Slayer is the first one who has worked with _anybody_ other than her Watcher. The Council thinks that’s an aberration; I think it’s the start of something new. I think... I thought that future Slayers would be... would need something other than what a traditional Watcher could give them. However little I liked involving computers and a team and so on, I could see that the world was changing. Future Slayers would want that, and the current Council set-up won’t provide it.”

“So... if the Council wouldn’t accept me, because I’m not Watcher material... I don’t get how you thought it would work.”

He made a face. “Neither did I, really. You _are_ Watcher material, I think; I’m just not sure what Watcher material _is_ any more. I had half an idea that Watchers should work in pairs, so that there was always one experienced one, and a, a trainee, an apprentice, maybe, getting some practical hands-on training as well as the Council based theory, dividing up the work. Research isn’t your forte, but it _is_ mine; I’m too old for a lot of the physical aspects but you’re not. By the time you were ready to give up the physical you would know how to do the research, and you would take on your own apprentice. I suppose I was hoping that when the wheels came off and the Council finally admitted that it needed a new style of Watcher, that the Wesleys wouldn’t be good enough any more unless they got some field experience _before_ they took on a Slayer full time, we would have one ready to go, rather than having to start from scratch.”

“Like replacing your old computer system with a new one and running them in parallel for a month, yeah, I get it,” said Xander thoughtfully. “But... why did you never tell me?”

He leaned his forehead against Ivo’s neck, and forced down the recollection, still bitter after so many years, of being told himself. “I hadn't even gone through puberty when they told me that my whole life was mapped out and I had no choices. I wouldn’t do that to somebody else. I knew it was different for you – you were a volunteer where I was a conscript – but I was perfectly well aware that if I said ‘Xander, the next Watcher is you,’ or even ‘the next Watcher _could_ be you,’ you would whinge and argue and refuse to learn anything I could teach you, simply _because_ I wanted you to learn. You wouldn't even have listened to why I thought... If I kept my mouth shut, you _were_ learning; I thought that if the need for you to be a Watcher, either for the current Slayer or a new one, arose, you would simply take up the responsibility naturally. If you didn’t want to, well, I had lost nothing except my time and the Council could work something out itself.” He looked over Ivo’s withers at Xander. “I was trying to keep all the plates spinning: to prepare you to be a Watcher without removing your right to refuse, your right to _choose_ , however little I might like your choice; to keep the Slayer alive; to provide _something_ suitable for a new Slayer in a new age; to avoid antagonising the Council by telling them that they were behind the times. I hoped that if you took over from me, it would be possible to say to the Council: see, this is how it works now and it _isn’t_ necessary for every Watcher to be stuffy and tweedy, it _isn’t_ true that the only possible training for a Watcher is the one we’ve used for five hundred years.” He showed his teeth in what he knew must be a bitter grin. “I fucked that up, didn’t I? The Council wouldn’t believe me now if I told them the _time_ , so the probability of them accepting you under my sponsorship is solidly zero. The Slayer doesn’t want a Watcher at all. And for some reason that I can’t fathom, the man I thought would be the next Watcher is living in a tent and shovelling horseshit in Scotland.”

“I’m here because it’s the right place for me to be,” said Xander shortly. “You said I had the right to choose: I’ve chosen. I owe you...”

“You owe me _nothing!_ ” He was startled by the strength of his own explosive response.

“Think I do. Think it’s maybe not what you think I think it is.”

He took a moment to work that out, and Xander took advantage of it. “Yeah, I owe you for Coblan, some. Some. Some of that’s... I don’t think it... It’s too big to think about who owes who what.” He looked sideways at Giles and added defiantly, “I came for you after Angelus, I got you out, I went to the hospital with you, I lived with you and did your dressings and made sure you were fed and... and the rest. I know what you did with Coblan, that was way bigger, because you had to _do_ stuff, make decisions, whatever, and me, I just reacted to the way things were with Buffy gone and you hurt. My decisions were all... just get through today. Yours were planning for tomorrow, how to get me home, what to do if we couldn’t, yeah? But after Angelus, I didn’t think that you owed me, and I don’t believe you thought that I owed you from Coblan.”

He was startled again at hearing his own notions so clearly expressed.

“What I _do_ owe you for is afterwards. I owe you that I didn’t trust you, that I didn’t take any account of how kind you had been when I was... when I was Kay. I owe you that when the girls went all freaky about...” and he tapped his chest, “I didn’t side with you, or at least say ‘can we ask?’ Wesley told me I was stupid, not for not knowing why you did what you did, but for not thinking that you didn’t do stuff without a reason and we ought to find out what the reason was.” He frowned slightly and added slowly, “I think I owe you for the fact that I didn’t think at all. The girls told me what I ought to think so I thought it. They were outraged so I was outraged. I didn’t... I didn’t challenge them at all, not even when what they were saying didn’t fit with what I remembered. What you said... yeah, I was lazy. And it hurt when you told me so, but it was true. That’s what I’ve always done. They lead, I follow. I don’t... Giles, I don’t like that about me. So... O.K., I can learn. If you teach me, I can learn. I never... I never realised that you thought I could do that. I never knew that you... I always knew... I always _thought_ that you thought I was a complete loser who couldn’t do _anything_ or be _taught_ to do anything. Giles, just about _everything_ that I thought I knew has turned out not to be true. I need to learn, I dunno, better? I can’t trust what I think I know. I _do_ trust  you. I’m admitting, I should have done it all along, and I didn’t and I’m real sorry about that, but now I do. Teach me how to be a Watcher. Buffy won’t go back to the Council for her Watcher, although I know she’s... never mind.”

He wondered what Xander had nearly said, but he refused to ask.

“She wants you back, but I get that you don’t want to go. I think I even get why you don’t want to go. But she ought to have a Watcher, and if it’s not you, then... then yeah, it sorta has to be me, I see that. But I don’t know how. So... teach me. If you think I can learn, I’ll learn.”

He shook his head. “It’s too late. I don’t have the resources to teach you any more.”

“Willow’s chasing the books...”

He shook his head again, frustrated by Xander's failure to understand. “I don’t mean that. I can’t afford the books even if we could get them. Some of the information is available on the internet and you’d do better with Willow for that than with me.” From his expression, he thought that Xander didn’t agree with him, but he ploughed on. “I don’t have the personal resources. _I am not a Watcher any more_ and I don’t think I can be one again. I’m too tired. My day is already full; I’m tutoring at the school, I’m jousting, I do translation work; none of it pays well. Watcher training is a full-time occupation. There are no more hours in the day in which to teach you, even if I wanted to.”

“Because you won’t let me do anything,” argued Xander stubbornly, ignoring that last. “How much time every day do you spend brushing the horse? How much time just keeping this place together? I do bits of it, but I can only do them when I’ve seen what needs done. Giles, when was the last time you had a day off? Or even half a day? When was the last time you did something just because you wanted to, rather than because you had to? I’m picking up after you but if you would only _tell_ me... I saw you practise with a sword; you could teach me if you let me practise with you.”

“I’m too tired,” he said again. “I’m too old. You always said, all of you, that I was too old, and it’s true. I’m too old to start again. I haven’t got... I haven’t go whatever it is that makes somebody start something. I haven’t got the drive. You may well want to learn, but it’s too late. I don’t want to teach any more.” He smiled grimly at Xander. “So there’s your lesson. You don’t get what you want just because you want it.”

Xander opened his mouth and Giles forestalled him, picking up the brushes and dropping them into the bucket, straightening his back and making it plain that he had finished with this conversation.

Xander hadn't. “’Kay. I’m not arguing. You don’t owe me anything and I haven’t really got the right to ask, that’s obvious enough even to me. But... some of what you do is useful Watchery-type stuff, yeah? Like the swordplay. So... can we do that together? I’ll learn just by doing it, you don’t have to teach me, not _teach_ me. Let me do the work, even the bits that aren’t Watcher stuff, and I’ll learn.”

He laughed aloud, a rusty crow of bitter not-really-amusement. “What’s in it for me? I’m damned if I’ll do it for duty. I did my duty, and it rose up and bit me on the arse. If there’s nothing owed between you and me, there’s certainly nothing owed between the Council and me, or the Slayer and me. I’m not the Slayer’s Watcher any more and it’s not my responsibility to provide her with a new one. So what would I get out of this?”

Xander floundered. “Uh... Time? If I’m shifting the heavy work, you get time to do stuff you really do want to do?”

He shrugged indifferently; Xander was silenced, and Giles felt the triumph. The boy had nothing he wanted; he could send him away.

“If you work for me, you don’t get to choose which bits of work you do. You do...”

“I do as I’m told,” said Xander steadily. “I know how to do that. I’ve been taught _that_ : unquestioning obedience.”

He shivered a little at that and he thought Xander did too. His voice sounded odd. “Most of the work isn’t anything to do with Watching.”

Xander shrugged.

“And make no mistake, I’ll give you the bits I don’t want to do myself. Usually I have a good reason not to want to do them.”

Xander nodded.

“Then go into the tack room, put on the rubber gloves and bring me the towelling rags and the blue bottle. Fill that bucket with tepid water. Today’s undesirable lesson: how to clean a gelding’s sheath.”


	40. Giles 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Giles gives himself away - at least to himself. This is where we want to slap _him_.

Xander wanted work? Giles gave him work.

He refused to allow himself to be surprised either by his own totally unexpected capitulation, or by the way Xander went about things; he told himself that the other man (he was training himself out of the use of the word ‘boy’ which he freely admitted was patronising and inaccurate) had been employed on building sites, and indeed had demonstrated ever since he had set up his tent on Giles’ doorstep, that he wasn’t afraid of physical exertion.

He also freely admitted, at least in the privacy of his own head, that he was trying to drive Xander away. All the dirty work to do with the horse fell to Xander; Giles, who was fond of his horse, quite apart from his appreciation of Ivo as an expensive working asset, made sure that Xander knew what he was doing, and why he was doing it, and oversaw the How until he was certain that Ivo was in no danger from an inexperienced stable boy.

Beyond that, to begin with, Xander was doing mostly the kind of work he had picked up of his own accord – but he was doing a lot more of it. Giles kept him occupied from early morning until noon, and then dismissed him with instructions to eat lightly and present himself again for weapons practice. For _Giles’_ weapons practice; he explained nothing except which weapon was next for use. He was _not_ training Xander: Xander could train himself.

They sparred; this was not new, they had done it since the library days, but now Giles stopped making allowances for Xander, and he saw from his expression (although Xander didn’t comment) that it came as a surprise. Xander was competent with a short sword, but he had learned no more than would _make_ him competent; he had thought that because he could kill a demon, everything else was style and decoration. Giles, now that he no longer cared (or so he told himself) if Xander stayed to learn more or not, showed him precisely how mistaken that notion was, disarming him in under twenty seconds, and then when a rather shocked Xander picked up his sword for a fresh attempt, landing him smartly on his arse three times in as many minutes. After an hour, Xander was panting, his shirt sodden with sweat, his hair falling wetly into his scarlet face; Giles appeared to have exerted himself no more than he would have done walking across the yard.

“You’re short on stamina,” he said dismissively; he thought Xander would have flushed angrily, if his face had been capable of taking on any more colour. As it was, he took a couple of deep breaths, scrubbing with the hem of his shirt at his hairline.

“I can go on.”

Giles gave a snort of laughter. “I think not. You haven’t come close to hitting me, and your strokes are getting wilder and wilder now because you’re reduced to following the weight of the sword rather than using it. Every attack is telegraphed before you do it, and you’re so slow that I could be behind you cutting your throat before you realised I was gone.”

Xander leaned over, hands on his knees, dragging in oxygen; Giles waited for the snippy response.

“What must I do?” It was humble, and disarming; he refused to allow himself to be disarmed.

“Work.”

And Xander did, for three months, as the summer eased first to autumn and then to a cold wet winter. Giles piled work on him, and Xander picked it up without complaint; the only time he flinched was when Giles produced a large and heavy book, one of the few he had left, held it out to him, and said tersely, “That’s basic required knowledge.” Even then, he took it, with a muttered word that _might_ have been thanks, and more to the point, he came back with it late in the evening.

“Will you keep this inside at night? I – the tent isn’t always as dry as would be good for it.”

He accepted it back without comment, but with a snide internal conviction that it would never leave the cottage again; when Xander appeared the next evening, tapping politely and asking for it, he was hard put not to show his surprise. When Xander appeared again an hour later and asked to borrow a dictionary, he passed one over the half door.

He was aware that Xander looked tired, and wasn’t surprised: it wasn’t so much that Xander was unfit – although he was – or unused to hard physical work – for he was not. Giles thought that what was exhausting him was the concentration; he remembered that from his own training.

He wasn’t sympathetic. Xander wasn’t enjoying Teach Yourself Watching? He could have had training any time from when he was seventeen, if he had only been willing to take what had been held out to him. Now he wanted what was no longer on offer.

He was working a good deal of it out for himself, Giles would give him that. He had begun running; Giles watched as he started trying to do too much, to push himself too hard, and inevitably lamed himself. He watched, without comment, as Xander, stiff and in pain, worked out that he needed to make haste more slowly, and began a much slower routine of walking and jogging.

He did, slightly against his own inclination, begin to do his own warm up and cool down routines in the shadow of the house, where Xander could see him and copy them. He caught himself several times working out ways to explain the need for specific training or fitness procedures; he never actually did explain them. Xander did what he had said he would do: he observed and he copied, and in between, he did the outdoor work and attempted to read the book Giles had given him.

Once... once Giles was working in the kitchen garden, tidying up the vegetable patch for winter, when Xander, obviously returning from a run, hopped over the fence, breathing hard, and dropped to the ground beside him, scrabbling at his wrist to bring his watch to where he could see it, and making a face at it.

“Damn. Thought I’d have it under fifty minutes this time. Up to that rock at the top of the trees, you know?”

Giles did know. Fifty minutes was respectable but nothing better. He went on weeding; after a moment, Xander dared to ask, “What? You’re frowning.”

For some reason he felt inclined to answer. “I was remembering the fitness bits of my own training. I loathed it. I saw the need, but I loathed it. There was a man called Westenra who was in charge of getting us in shape, and any number of us would willingly have staked him. The word among the trainees was that he had been booted out of the Commandos for being unreasonably violent, and I believe it. Total bastard. He didn’t believe in praise, thought it made you soft.” Xander's face didn’t change, although Giles half expected him to comment that Giles didn’t approve of praise either. “What he did believe in was physical punishment. Corporal punishment, not extra training. His technique regarding cross country runs was to send us off, without notice, at any hour of the day or night, irrespective of whatever other training exercises we had been on, and then to take his belt to the last three to come home again.” He sat back on his heels, remembering. “Which for a distressingly long time was me and Tracy... Tracy Urquhart, I think her name was, and one variable other.”

Xander made a soft noise; Giles wasn’t sure if it was sympathy or amusement. “You were slow?”

“I’d been three years living on fish and chips, beer and drugs,” he pointed out harshly. “Unfit wasn’t the half of it.”

“And a girl?” Xander sounded uneasy.

“The Council has always been an equal opportunity employer, you know that. There are plenty of female Watchers. Anybody may volunteer to be killed by demons, they don’t care. Tracy was half his size but Westenra’s view was that she’d signed up, she could take the consequences.” He scowled at the recollection. “Once, I was overcome by a stupid and wholly misplaced attack of gallantry, when I was coming in fourth from last, and slowed down to let Tracy pass me. I can’t have done it very well, because she knew and so did Westenra. He licked her anyway: twelve strokes, that was his standard award, with that bloody army belt, two inches wide and sodding heavy, on the grounds that she _should_ have been in the last three, and then told her to hold me down – like she could have done anything about it if I’d fought her, she was a tiny woman, but it was bloody humiliating nonetheless – while he absolutely thrashed me, twice, once for being slow and once for... I’ve forgotten what he called it but it covered defiance, stupidity, disobeying orders and generally not having the brains I was born with. When he’d gone, Tracy boxed my ears for being a patronising git, and I never tried _that_ trick again. I don’t think I sat down at all in two days, and not comfortably for a week. Westenra was about sixteen stone – ah, two hundred and twenty pounds, you would say – and built like a tank: when he took a strap to you, you knew about it for a good long time. I resented it hugely – I was older than the others, half of them were straight out of school and the rest were only just graduated...” He looked sideways at Xander. “You don’t ‘graduate’ from high school here, only from university. I had three years on most of them and six on some, and it felt like sixty. I was desperately unhappy, drowning in guilt, I had no friends, and I didn’t feel that I needed an army psychopath leathering my backside because I was unfit. I was doing the best I could to fix it. I suppose he would say it worked: I was so desperate to get away from him that I nearly killed myself exercising. Well, it did work. None of his trainees ever failed the final physical, he’d weeded out the ones who wouldn’t make it well before that.”

Xander leaned his cheek on his knees. “Slow, defiant, stupid and disobedient. And unfit. That’s... If you... I don’t...” He stopped, swallowed, marshalled his thoughts, stared deliberately into the middle distance and said firmly, “If you think that’s a training technique that would work on me, you should use it. I won’t... I need all the help I can get.”

Giles stood up, brushing the soil off his hands. “But you,” he said, with careful accuracy and what he knew to be dismissive cruelty, “are not my trainee.”

He dreamed, that night, of Kay, stretched half naked across his lap, squirming under his admonishing hand, trying desperately – he could see how desperately – to keep still and to be silent. His sleeping mind remembered Kay insinuating himself under his hand afterwards, flushed cheek against his thigh, fingertips against his knee, seeking comfort from him, a punished penitent open to forgiveness. In his dream, he stroked the beloved face, ran his fingers through the entwining hair, and gently thumbed tears away from beneath the closed eyes.

Kay’s eyes opened, and he spoke. “Master,” he said, the word full of longing and trust. Giles touched his lips, and he opened his mouth, sucking Giles’ fingers inside, tongue tickling and curling. Giles felt his eyes hood with pleasure.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Who are you?”

Kay smiled triumphantly. “Master, I’m your pet. I’m Xander and I’m your pet.”

When his eyes snapped open, the darkness was still ringing from his shout, and his cock was still pulsing.


	41. Xander 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Oh good lord, they're quarrelling again.

Sometimes he wondered why he stayed.

Sometimes was about twice a day. On a good day.

He was about as miserable as he had ever been, he thought, except that...

Except that this was where he _needed_ to be.

Sometimes he thought that even Coblan had been better than this, because in Coblan, although he knew he was unhappy, it was more immediate, simpler: he was hungry, he was in pain, he was tired, he was frightened. Well, he wouldn’t say that he wasn’t any of those in Scotland, but they were all temporary and they were all under his own control. If he was hungry, he could feed himself at will. He was exhausted some days, but he knew that he always had the option of _not_ running, _not_ sparring with Giles, _not_ cutting out the rotten wood in the door of Ivo’s stable and replacing it with fresh timber that then had to be sealed and varnished. He ached all over sometimes, with the slow cold hurt of weariness, and various joints and muscles complained as he made them work, but nobody was going to come after him with a whip if he didn’t go for a run up the loggers’ trail, or finish the fifth set of push-ups. He could leave any time he wanted.

He wasn’t frightened. However angry or cold or dismissive or spiteful Giles was, Xander wasn’t afraid of him. Sometimes he hated him: he’d thought back in the library days that Giles totally owned the one-line put-down and that way too often the put-down-ee was Xander himself, but now he realised that Giles had been holding back, tempering his acidity to their youth and inexperience. He wasn’t doing that any more. He didn’t say much to Xander, and none of it was good but he could make Xander cringe at the realisation of something dumb he had done with no more than a look.

For all of that, Coblan had been easier, in a lot of ways. Horrible, but easier. He hadn't been expected to do anything except what he was told. Disobedience was punished; obedience was... well, once he had gone to Ma... to Giles, obedience had been rewarded. Before that, obedience had been ignored, as unworthy of notice. Obedience was just the way things were supposed to be. Boy, and then Kay, simply did as he was told.

This was much more difficult. This involved... he’d had several sleepless nights working out what it was. This was taking responsibility for his own life. This, presumably, was what Giles had done at a similar age, after a similar fuck-up of similar proportions and with similarly life-changing effects applied similarly to individuals other than the one responsible for the fuck up, and now and then, he thought that Giles, having fucked up just as thoroughly, might be a bit more sympathetic. Then he wondered about the others who were dead: not Ethan, who was a pain in Giles’ ass, obviously (and he was so not thinking about that in precisely those words, because those words took him to the possibility that Giles and Ethan... he preferred not to think about Giles and Ethan that way) but Philip and Deidre and Thomas. Had they resented Ethan and Giles, the way Giles resented Xander? Had they regretted what they had done, and blamed Giles for it? Had Giles ever tried to remake his relationship with them and been blown off?

Obviously it wasn’t something he could ask. He wasn’t the man he had been in California, he knew that. He’d got himself into focus, and he hadn't been impressed. Giles had thought he was Watcher material, and while he still thought Giles could have handled that way better, like _telling_ him about it, he could understand, more or less, why he hadn't. He could see that since Giles had been told at ten or twelve, or whenever it was, that he _had_ to do the Watcher stuff, he might be overly sensitive about doing the same to somebody else. He had to admit, when he thought it through, that Giles was probably right when he said that if he had announced, “Xander, start training; the next Watcher is you,” Xander would have bolted at worst and argued at best. Sure, if Giles had... if Giles had been killed, he _thought_ he would have tried to pick up the job; he would certainly have panicked about his ability to do it, and he would have been onto the Council fairly sharply to send a new Watcher who wasn’t him, but, yeah, he thought he would have tried to do the work rather than leaving it undone. If the Council _had_ sent somebody else, nobody would have seen Xander for dust. But if Giles had told him? If it had involved anything formal? No. He’d have been saying that he was a Scooby but he wasn’t and couldn’t be a real, Council trained Watcher. So Giles couldn’t ask him. No, Giles had handled it badly, but Xander couldn’t think of a way he could have handled it better, and _that_ was a story they already knew.

But Xander wasn’t impressed by Xander. Too many of the sleepless nights – the airbed wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, and already he wasn’t looking forward to winter in the tent – had involved going over and over what Giles had said to and about the Scoobies, deconstructing it, picking out what was a deeply hurt and offended man just striking where he thought he could hurt back, and what was valid criticism, and ‘lazy’ was valid criticism.

He’d been accused of it often enough, even in his schooldays. He’d admitted it: it had been a running gag. He hadn't actually believed it to be true, though, not _really_ true, not as far as it applied to... to anything other than his schoolwork. He’d gone to work in construction, and no, he wasn’t lazy there. He was a damn good construction worker.

When he had somebody to tell him what to do. That was the guts of it, wasn’t it? When he followed Giles, or Willow, or Buffy, he was fine. When he was on his own... yeah, he’d come out well once or twice. Once or twice.

And at his age, once or twice wasn’t cutting it. He’d followed Chad into a big mess because when he’d been _told_ that he was doing something stupid... Well, he supposed that if he’d taken Giles’ word for it, he’d just have been following Giles. Still, he could have listened and... Researched. He knew how to do research; Giles had taught him that. He’d just not bothered to do it.

Time to step up, Xander. Time to _grow_ up. Time to do the Giles-y thing of admitting that he had screwed up, he’d been wrong and that he could do better. He just wished that Giles would help more. He was willing to learn. He wanted to learn. He did, he guessed, understand why Giles wouldn’t teach him, but... If Giles wouldn’t teach him, he didn’t think he could do it. And that wasn’t an option so he had to get Giles on board with teaching him and _that_ meant showing Giles that he’d changed.

And then there was the... the other thing.

The Other Thing.

The fact that he woke in the middle of the night sweating and panting from dreams of having Giles’ hands on him. The fact that the second time he’d gone to a little stone keep – this part of Scotland seemed to have a castle every fifteen miles, even if ‘castle’ sometimes meant ‘pile of squared stones and reputation’ – to watch Giles joust, he’d had a raging hard on from the time he saw Jehan put Wicked Sir Rupert into his armour to the time he realised how long it was going to take him to walk home. The fact that when Giles spent five minutes at the end of the day rubbing Ivo’s ears, feeding him titbits, and murmuring affectionately to him, and _smiling_ , Xander was all but submerged in what he knew to be a totally ridiculous jealousy. The fact that ever since he’d first admitted that he was a guy who liked guys as well as a guy who liked girls, he’d been looking for he hadn't known quite what. Then Chad had introduced him to the concept of a guy who... was maybe a bit harsh now and then, who gave orders and insisted on them being obeyed, and Xander had cheerfully decided that yeah, he was the sort of guy who liked guys like that.

He’d thought Chad was a guy like that, and Chad was like that, but he wasn’t a guy. Not a regular guy. More a sort of... well, hell, a regular demon. A demon like that.

What he had trouble believing now was that he had so plainly failed to notice, not only that Giles was a guy like that, but that Giles was _the_ guy like that. Well, he’d noticed the first part of that – he remembered lying on Chad’s couch, stupid with spells and drugs, and admitting to himself that bossy Giles was hot – but somehow he had never thought about how it might apply to himself, to the relationship that _he_ had with Giles.

It took him a long time, a lot of reflection as he jogged, or as he shovelled old bedding out of Ivo’s stable, or as he chopped wood or cleaned the sword that Giles had just used to make him feel like a complete dork again, or walked to and from the town with his laundry, but there it was. Giles was The Man. There was no accounting for it, because anybody would have thought that after the way things were on Coblan, just about the _last_ thing Xander would have wanted was a master – but he did. Back in the day, when he and Chad talked about that sort of thing, he’d thought about a master being harsh and fierce and strict, forcing obedience from him.

He’d had that, and he hadn't liked it one bit.

Then he’d had Master, and he had learned about wanting to please, about the fact that a disappointed glance could hurt way more than a whip, about the fact that having his butt swatted could leave him ready to weep, not because it stung but because Master was displeased with him. Master hadn't forced him to obey: he’d asked, politely, and submission had been easy. He wanted that again, not quite the same way... well, not at all the same way, really, but he wanted that feeling again.

He wanted it to be Giles who gave it to him. He wasn’t Kay any more but Giles was still Master.

“What the hell is _this?_ ”

And plainly Master was incredibly pissed about something. He scrambled to his feet and took the paper Giles was pushing at him.

“Um... it’s your paycheck?”

“Don’t be bloody _insolent_ ,” snarled Giles. “I can _see_ that it’s a payslip. What I want to know is why the hell I’ve got it? And this as well.”

O.K., so ‘this’ was a letter from Barnes Bristowe, Solicitors, and Xander had a moment’s mental dislocation, before he remembered that in England – and presumably in Scotland too – a solicitor was some sort of lawyer, not a guy who tried to sell you life assurance over the telephone. He read the letter carefully.

“Oh, she found it!” He looked up at Giles. “What, is it not the right one, or something?”

Giles looked like a guy taking pissed-ness to a totally... no, he’d told Xander about that, hadn't he? They were in Britain. Or the United Kingdom, Xander wasn’t very clear on what the difference was. Giles looked like a guy taking pissed- _off­_ -ness to previously unrecognised limits. Xander read the letter again, looking for a clue. No, it said the same second time through. Ms Collingwood of Barnes Bristowe was pleased to inform Mr Giles that the transfer of the land marked in green on the attached map, including all riparian rights, had gone through on November 19th, and that the final paperwork would be sent to Mr Giles under separate cover. All costs had been submitted, as agreed, to Ms W Rosenberg, and Barnes Bristowe would be pleased to assist Mr Giles in future with any other legal matters if he so required. He looked inquisitively back at Giles, whose lips were tight and who was breathing hard.

“What’s wrong with it? Was that not your river? The one that belonged to your uncle or godfather or whatever?”

Giles glared at him, but he nodded jerkily once. “That was mine.”

“Good, because Willow was having some trouble persuading them to sell, they wouldn’t sell just the fishing, they insisted on it being the land as well and she would be mad if I told her it was the wrong river.”

 “What makes you think it’s any of your business? And this...” and he waved the paycheck.

Xander frowned. “Is it wrong? Buff said she’d argued them into including your back pay; she was ticked that they wouldn’t put it through at once but she thought it would be better to wait and get you everything than insist on them restarting you last month and trust them to do the back pay later. I don’t think she really trusts anybody at the Council, Giles. She thought they would try to stiff you if she didn’t keep on at them.”

“I didn’t ask her to! Why will none of you children keep _out_ of my affairs?”

He tried not to roll his eyes, but from the way Giles’ expression hardened, it wasn’t totally successful. “Nobody’s asking you to see her... well, I dunno, maybe she is when she writes to you. But she’s not trying to force it. Giles, you can’t have it both ways. You were mad at us – look, leave the personal stuff out of it. But we messed up your life, we lost you your job, and you had to sell the apartment and the car and the rest, and you were mad about that too. It wasn’t fair, yeah? It wasn’t fair that you lost so much,” and he gestured wildly, not finding the word he wanted. “You lost so much real, physical stuff. The other, the trust, the reputation, your family, that’s different and no, we can’t do much with that. Well, your reputation with the Council... maybe, I dunno what Buffy’s told them. But she’s got you your job. She got them paid off for the money you had to spend on me, she’s got you back on the payroll. Maybe not... I don’t think you’re her Watcher. You don’t want that and they don’t want you to have it, and if Buffy does, that’s something for you and her to fight out later. But you’ve got a salary, and a...” he glanced at the slip of paper in his hand, “pension? If they’re taking money off you in your wages, you must be in the pension plan again? This other one, is that the health insurance? You can’t be mad first of all because it was our fault that you lost this stuff, and then mad again when we get it back for you.”

Giles snatched the two papers from his grip. “Oh, I can,” he assured Xander, in a low, vicious tone. “I can be as angry as I like that you are still _interfering_. For all you know, I had plans of my own.”

“Did you?” asked Xander, for once coming up with the right question at the right time; Giles breathed hard but he couldn’t meet Xander's eyes. Xander felt his own anger rising. “You... you’re just enjoying this now, aren’t you? You’re _enjoying_ feeling hard done by, sulking and refusing to talk to anybody, and you won’t answer Buffy and you won’t train me and you won’t... Willow’s been busting her butt trying to get this stuff back for you, and you _resent_ it?”

“What do you want from me?” enquired Giles, just as angrily. “Gratitude? Because you’re not going to get it. You want me to be _grateful_ that you’ve got back something that shouldn’t have been taken from me in the first place?”

Xander thought briefly about screaming aloud. “No! I want you... I want you, maybe just _once_ , just for _five minutes_ , to _let go_ of being pissed at us all. We’re damned if we do, damned if we don’t with you, Giles. You’re looking for excuses to be pissed. Anything we say, _anything_ we do, you’re taking offence. It’s like you’ve forgotten how to feel _anything_ except pissed...” He saw Giles’ fist clench and the muscles in his forearm ripple, and without conscious thought, his body _must have learned something from all that sparring_ braced itself for the punch.

It didn’t come. Giles opened his hand again, finger by finger, but the tendons in his neck stood out with the effort; Xander suddenly understood.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck_. You have, haven’t you? You’ve been pissed so long now that you _don’t_ feel anything else.”

Giles showed his teeth. “And I should _let go_? What’s that phrase you children used to use when I was annoyed about anything? _Just get over it already?_ Well, get this, Xander: I’m _not_ over it. I’m not over being betrayed. I’m not over being used. I’m not over being misjudged. And if I’m angry, maybe it’s because that’s all that gets me out of bed in the morning, because between you, you left me nothing else.” He started for the house, and then turned back. “I might have expected you to understand that. You had everything taken away from you too.”

“It wasn’t the same,” Xander answered wearily. “I didn’t know what I’d lost. But when somebody came for me, when somebody tried to put it right... You don’t see it that way, do you? You don’t see that we’re trying. We’ve launched a rescue attempt and you’re fighting us instead of the people you should be fighting. You’re mad at _us_ because you’ve given up being mad at the people you should be mad at. How could you _give up_ that way, Giles?” Only he knew the answer to that one. “You gave up like I gave up when they came _again_ with the whip, didn’t you? Because you can’t... there’s no more. The tank’s empty. When you think about what fighting costs, when you _know_ that you’ll lose, when the odds...”

For a moment he thought that Giles would answer him, but he didn’t, he just turned away again and Xander floundered for a moment, wondering crazily if he could suggest therapy, or going to the doctor and talking about depression, and knowing that he couldn't, that Giles had to find his own way out of this labyrinth and that all Xander could do was stand at the entrance and yell for him.

What it came down to was that Giles had given up the way Xander had given up on Coblan, and for the same reason: because he thought that there was nobody fighting for him, beside him, with him. And Xander had been wrong: Giles – and Willow and Buffy but mainly Giles – had been fighting for him all along.

“Giles!”

He saw Giles’ shoulders hunch and drop, and he _knew_ that the expression he couldn’t see was ‘what is it _now?_ ’

“Got your back, Giles.”


	42. Xander 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Yeah, well, we all said, didn't we? A tent in Scotland in winter? So not a good idea.

Giles more or less ignored him for a week; Xander panicked and wondered about forcing the issue, but he couldn’t think of any way to do it. The jousting and history stuff had come to an end in the middle of October, with a whole week in which, apparently, the schools were out. The Hoofbeat History team had closed their season at one of the bigger and more convincing castles, with seven consecutive days of exhibitions and shows, culminating in a huge weekend production, with twelve knights, two banquets, a demonstration of mediaeval music and dance, and a full tournament. Giles had come home Champion, totally exhausted and covered, at least in the places Xander could see, with bruises, and had appeared for a few days only to check on Ivo, who was apparently having a holiday too, being let loose in the paddock while the sunshine lasted, and brought in as soon as the temperature began to drop, without being required to do any work.

Xander had wondered if Giles would stop sparring with him once he was no longer doing the history work, but Giles apparently intended to keep himself as fit through the winter as he had in the summer; his only concession was to produce the crossbows, and to ask – well, no, to _tell_ – Xander to think of some means of building a target. They had shot together; Xander was marginally less crap at that than he had been at the swordplay.

In the aftermath of the argument, though, Giles cut him dead for a week.

In the end, Xander found a means to speak to him.

“Giles? You know the track that runs parallel to the road, along the top of the ridge? They had a truck up there last week, bringing down the felled trees, and the driver screwed up the turn at the last bend, did you see?”

Giles, chilly of expression, had nodded. Xander forced his way on.

“Well, the last three days they’ve been replacing the gate and the fence, and I asked the guy in charge, you know the big guy with red hair? Seems to be the boss of the land crew? I asked him what would happen to the old fence. He said they’d have to cut out all the wire, because of the wildlife, and then they’d leave the wood to rot, so I asked if we could have it for your fire. Did a deal with him, that we would get the wire out, and then we can have every second one of the posts and the gate if we’ll take them away, and the other ones can just be left to lie for the bugs and whatever. If you’ve got wire cutters I could go up there today, but I’ll need you to bring the jeep up for the wood.”

Giles had nodded once, but after lunch, he had backed the Land Rover out of the shed, and leaned over to throw the door open for Xander. He didn’t speak on the way up the track, but Xander could recognise the proffered olive branch, and kept quiet too. Once they started working, it was easier; conversation was limited to ‘pass the wire cutters’ and ‘O.K., now pull,’ but such as it was, Giles took his share of it. The tension between them eased enough that Xander felt himself able to ask, as they unloaded the wood into Giles’ store, “Are we sparring tomorrow? Or shooting?”

Giles’ shoulders moved uneasily, but he answered freely enough. “Shooting, I think. We haven’t had any bow work at the Hoofbeat History; I suggested it for next season, and it won’t be me who does it if it happens, but it’ll be me who has to demonstrate it well enough to persuade the others, and then teach somebody to do it. It’s a lot of work to learn for anybody who hasn’t done it before.”

For a moment Xander thought of saying, “I could do it, I’d surely be better than a complete novice,” but something persuaded him to hold his tongue. He’d been ticked off enough for interfering; now was _so_ not the time. Giles was talking to him again: that would have to be enough.

He started breaking up the wood they had retrieved in his few free moments; the weather was getting ever wetter and colder, and he didn’t like it. The guy in the camping store had assured him when he bought his sleeping bag that it would take him up Ben Nevis – Willow had dug him in the ribs to stop him asking who Ben Nevis was – and in his opinion, the store guy had been lying like a carpet. He’d found a couple of old army blankets in a goodwill store (although they didn’t call it that here), labelled as ‘suitable for animal bedding’, and had decided that he couldn't afford to be picky. One of them went under him, where the chill struck up from the wet ground, even through his airbed; the other was doubled over his body.

Still he was cold at night, and it was taking him longer and longer every day to get warm. He’d long since given up his habit of stripping to his shorts in the wash-house to have a sponge-bath with the water from the boiler; now he uncovered himself bit by bit, trying to save his shuddering flesh from the cold.

When the snow came, it was just Too Much. He’d felt weird all day: the sky was an odd metallic shade, almost pink over the water, and the air was still. The temperature had dropped steadily; it was dark by the middle of the afternoon, and the first big flakes settled lazily on the trees an hour after that. He abandoned outdoor work and settled inside his tent with his camping lamp; he was going to give chapter thirty of Giles’ book another try. He hadn't understood it on any of his previous attempts, but maybe this time...

By the time he took the book back to Giles, the snow was lying all across the yard; he almost thought Giles was going to say something, but he didn’t.

The snow went on falling through most of the next day. He worked up a sweat in the wood store, sawing fence posts into neat blocks, but he was dreading the night, and when he refilled Ivo’s water bucket, the stable was warmer than his tent.

After that, it wasn’t a hard decision. The stable was actually designed for three horses; Ivo lived in one part, and rest was storage. The second stable was filled with baled hay and straw, feed and bedding for the horse, with bags of food pellets standing in the corner. The third, which was locked, held Ivo’s tack, Giles’ armour and what Xander thought of as Giles’ dress swords, the ones he used jousting. The _real_ swords, the demon-killing ones, lived indoors with Giles.

It was the second stable that interested Xander: if Ivo could bed down on straw, so could Xander, and he could hardly be colder than he had been the night before. He rolled up his bed and carried it across the yard, returning for his lamp and the book. He’d been sleeping in his clothes; he wasn’t taking off anything more than he had to.

Giles came out as usual last thing to check on Ivo; he hesitated when he saw Xander lying on top of the straw bales, but he didn’t comment, he just accepted the book when Xander held it out to him.

About all that could be said about the stable was that it was warmer than the tent. Xander began to wonder how Ivo would feel about a sub-tenant, and whether sharing body heat with a horse was legal in Scotland.

Outdoor work was a complete non-starter the next day: the snow continued with only brief pauses. Xander did, in one of the clear intervals, check the generator and the water tank, but otherwise, he spent most of the day inside his sleeping bag.

Chapter thirty continued to be incomprehensible.

It was Giles’ pub singing night; for once, he went in the Land Rover, and as usual, when he came back, he looked in on the horse. Xander heard him talking softly to Ivo, and checking the water bucket and hay net.

“Stand over then, you great lump. It’s going to be even colder tonight than last night; let’s get you your fleece as well as your rug.”

Even colder. Figured. And the G-Man was making sure his horse was all wrapped up against the cold, while Xander... Giles always spoke gently to the horse. Petted the horse, rubbed the horse’s ears and scratched his neck.

Just great. Jealous of a horse, now, Xander, and how lame was that?

It almost sounded as if Giles was making work next door; he’d put another rug on Ivo, he’d refilled the water bucket that Xander had filled not an hour before, he was checking Ivo’s feet and legs, when Xander had made sure that the horse was both clean and dry when he’d done the last feed. Xander had been looking after Ivo for two months; had Giles suddenly stopped trusting him?

He jumped when Giles appeared at the stable door, looking uncomfortable, and they stared at each other wordlessly for a long moment. Eventually Giles started to speak, stopped abruptly, coughed and began again.

“You’ll die of cold if you stay out here; you, you, you had better come into the house.” There was no enthusiasm, no welcome in his voice and he didn’t stop for Xander to answer him, which was just as well; Xander was speechless with shock, but Giles was gone, heading for the cottage door, which he left slightly ajar.

It took him a moment to work free of the sleeping bag and gather his stuff into a bundle he could carry; he was unsurprised to find Giles, just inside the cottage door, holding a crossbow and watching the doorway, eyes narrowed. It came as second nature, even after however many months sleeping in a tent, to find the cross on the doorframe and set his hand against it, under Giles’ level stare, feeling the wards at last part to let him in. The crossbow was lowered; Xander closed the door quietly; Giles sat down at his desk.

The house was warm, and Xander simply stood for a moment, looking around the square room. There was a second heavy door, opposite the first; that, he knew, led to a track down towards the water’s edge. An internal door led off to what he could work out was Giles’ bedroom and bathroom; an archway opened onto a kitchen-diner. It was _blissfully_ warm; one wall was occupied by a wood-burning stove, currently giving off an orange glow, and with a large pile of wood neatly stacked beside it. Xander gravitated to it at once, being careful not to stand between it and Giles’s back.

“You reek of horse,” said Giles, abruptly. “Go and shower; there are clean towels in the airing cupboard in the bathroom.” His back was still to Xander; his attention was apparently on his paperwork. Xander nodded, and felt dumb, knowing Giles couldn’t see.

“Thank you.”

The bathroom was cold, by comparison with the main room, but the water was scalding. Xander opened his washbag, and then, with a sudden return to Sunnydale days, found himself looking around for Giles’ shower gel. When they had shared Giles’ bathroom back then, he had regularly sneaked the use of the Big Guy’s shower products. He couldn’t remember what it was called, and he found that he didn’t even know whether it was an American brand or a British one, but he remembered it clearly: dark green, in a tall bottle with gold lettering on it. He had loved the smell of it, but he had never seen it in any of the discount stores from which his own toiletries came.

It wasn’t there. Maybe after all, it _had_ been American? What was Giles using now?

The label was unfamiliar, but the scent and the quality were unmistakeable: Giles was using the British equivalent of the stuff Xander had used when he had lived in the basement. Hell, the stuff Xander had in his wash bag _now_ was better than that.

Why the discovery that Giles was scrimping on toiletries should have been such an unpleasant shock, he didn’t know, but he could have cried for it. He didn’t – quite – he got himself clean and dry, searched under Giles’ sink for a cloth and cleaned the bath (in Sunnydale days he would never have thought of such a thing, but Kay knew about clean bathrooms even if Xander hadn't) and dragged fresh shorts and a clean-ish shirt from his duffle. Most of his clothes were still in the tent, but he was decent enough, he decided.

Back in the main room, with Giles studiously ignoring him, he knelt in front of the stove, and combed his hair until it felt dry enough to twist back into the leather tie that he used to keep it off his face. He wanted to speak to Giles, but the Do Not Disturb vibe was real strong, so he picked up the book – Giles had left it on a low table by the sofa – and had another try, quietly, at chapter thirty.

It was gone midnight when Giles got up, and headed out for his own room; Xander wondered for a moment if he should say something, but Giles was back, arms full of bedding.

“I, I’ve only one spare pillow, but you can take the cushions, I suppose. It’s up to you what you do about the fire, whether you let it go out or not. You, you’ll be warmer if you keep it up, but, but if you do, it will be your responsibility to replace the firewood in the morning.”

He wasn’t – quite – looking at Xander, and he didn’t wait for an answer, just closed the connecting door behind him, and presently Xander heard him in the bathroom, and then another door closing.

He didn’t sleep well. The couch, however warm it was, felt odd after his airbed, too short, and lumpy; eventually he got up and quietly pulled it to pieces, laying the seat cushions on the floor and unrolling his sleeping bag on top with Giles’ blanket as a cover. That was better, but despite being completely warm for what felt like the first time in a month, he couldn't sleep. The house made different noises to the ones he was accustomed to in the tent, and he found himself straining to hear anything from Giles’ room, and wondering when he did what made Giles so restless.

When he woke for the third time, the fire was nearly out; he got up, and rebuilt it cautiously. His experience with his firepit stood him in better stead than he had expected: the wood caught almost at once, and blazed enough to give him a little light as well as heat. He cruised around the room, careful to make no sound; at every turn there was something to make him uneasy.

He nosed unashamedly into bookcases and shelves and then he slipped into Giles’ kitchen. Outside the snow had stopped and there was a moon, shining hugely through the window; by its light he snooped in Giles’ cupboards. There was no Scotch. No alcohol at all, in fact. No cookies, no candy, no chips. Nothing that might conceivably be considered a treat. The bottle of wine Giles had shared with the selkie was obviously an aberration. When he came upon plates and dishes, there was a faint film of dust on them. Oh, this was _so_ not good: in Sunnydale, Giles had insisted on plates and flatware even for pizza; if he wasn’t using his own plates, then probably, Xander thought, considering what he had seen of Giles’ leanness, it wasn’t because he was eating from the takeout carton. He didn’t know if the local takeouts delivered; most likely even if they did, they wouldn’t come this far out of town, and only very rarely had he seen Giles carrying anything that might have been fast food. No: if Giles wasn’t eating from his plates, then probably Giles wasn’t eating _at all_ , or was eating only for ballast, on the go.

Back in the main room, he picked cautiously through Giles’ books. There were too few, but almost all of them were the leather bound tomes he remembered. He found Giles’ store of LPs in a crate in one corner; nowhere could he find anything on which they could be played. No music then, unless Giles had CDs he hadn't found and played them through his computer. On the windowsill, he found a small stock of battered paperbacks; when he opened one, there was a price pencilled on the first page. He knew these; the second hand bookstall came to the market about twice a month, and he too had bought thrillers and detective novels, feeding them back to the goodwill shop in the square when he had finished them. He wasn’t at all certain that he hadn't read the one in his hand. There were no new books. No recent books. None at all. Giles was scrimping on books. On _books_. _Giles?_ Doing without _books?_ Serious ‘does not compute’ moment.

Also on the windowsill was a shoebox; cautiously he lifted the lid and looked inside. It contained a whole drift of envelopes, some typed, some handwritten in Buffy’s neat script. All of them were sealed. He set the lid carefully back in place and retreated to his makeshift bed. Back pay or no back pay, he thought, confusedly, as he drifted off to sleep again, Giles was living like a monk.

His dreams were disturbed.


	43. Xander 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: Sneaky!Xander is Sneaky.

He woke when Giles started the shower, and found himself homesick for Sunnydale; there had been a lot of mornings waking on Giles’ couch, lying listening to the sounds of the Big Guy moving about before he scrambled up, tidied away the blankets and took his turn in the bathroom. Always before there had been vague morning not-quite-with-it conversation, not this rather uncomfortable silence. The snow had stopped and the yard outside was blinding white; the sun had come out.

When Xander emerged from the bathroom, Giles, apparently, had already eaten breakfast, or at least was starting his day; he had a mug in his hand and was finishing his coffee. He had left the jar on the work surface – cheap store brand instant, not ground, and not even one of what Xander had learned to identify as the drinkable British brands.

“Milk in the fridge,” he said abruptly, and waved vaguely towards the kitchen. “Bread, margarine in the fridge as well. I haven’t any marmalade but I think there’s some jam somewhere.” He was pulling his coat on as he spoke.

There was jelly – jam. Again, it was cheap store brand red-dye-and-woodchip raspberry, and when Xander unscrewed the lid, the smell of fermentation told him that it was a long way past its best – and a long time since Giles had bothered with it. He kept a wary eye through the window on Giles, who was seeing to Ivo, and carried out a hasty search of all the cupboards. Then he made some toast, and some rather nasty coffee, and collected a piece of scrap paper from Giles’ desk, borrowed a pen and began to make a list. He had a lot to think about.

When he went outside, Giles was nowhere to be seen; he picked his cautious way up the snow-bound track to the road. It was relatively unimpeded: from the look of it, some sort of snow clearer had been along. Still, the walk to town wouldn’t be entertaining, and he rather thought that it would take a lot longer than usual.

He went back to the tent for coat and boots, and his wallet and rucksack.

He was right: it was a long, slow walk, with occasional patches of treacherous footing, but he was lucky: a man he knew by sight from the swimming pool came past in a big car, heavy enough to manage the hill even on the ice, and stopped to offer him a lift, dropping him in the square.

Then he shopped like Buffy in a shoe sale.

On the way back – and it was _way_ further than usual, he’d have sworn it was – he heard the engine behind him when he was a third of the way up the hill. He recognised the note of the gear change and steeled himself for Giles to go past without stopping.

“Get in. The next lot of snow’s about fifteen minutes behind us, I drove through it on my way up the loch. I want to be indoors before it hits, it looks like a bad one.”

He scrambled in, dragging his bag with him. “I’ve not done anything about wood. I’ll do that next: it’s under cover, I can do it even if the snow comes. What about Ivo?”

“I’ll see to him. Can you check the oil and the generator?”

“Did it yesterday, you’re good.”

It felt odd to be having such an ordinary conversation; when Giles subsided, he didn’t try to keep it going. At the cottage, he wondered about addressing the question of going in with his purchases; he didn’t want particularly to draw Giles’ attention to them, but equally, he didn’t want them to freeze, and he wasn’t – he absolutely wasn’t – going into the house, ever, without Giles’ express permission.

“Xander? Strike the tent. Anything you want, put it inside the house. Put the tent itself in the tack room, and anything you don’t need. The forecast is for blizzards.”

Well, that made it easier. Easier for Xander, at least, but Giles sounded... sounded as if he was trying _not_ to sound pissed about having to take Xander in. That wasn’t so great.

Giles was right: the snow came in hard behind them. Xander spent a chilly hour in the wood store, breaking up more fence posts, and stomping through the snow to stack them at the front door. When he found himself inclined to bump a shoulder along the wall to keep from losing where he was going, he knew it was time to stop.

He was careful to knock before he opened the door, and to touch the cross. Giles watched, daytime or not, to see that he did. He was sitting at his desk but he came to help with the wood, and then returned to... Xander didn’t like seeing him using a computer. It seemed unnatural, somehow.

He could see that Giles was concentrating hard so he went quietly to the kitchen and filled the kettle, and then equally quietly unpacked his bag. If the cheapest-of-the-cheap coffee had startled him, the cheap tea had been downright shocking; Giles had _always_ insisted on good tea, of identifiable provenance. He rinsed out the teapot with hot water – and made tea.

Giles grunted when Xander put the mug down at his elbow; a moment later Xander pretended not to notice as Giles sent a hard stare in his direction. What the old Giles would have called ‘a halfway decent cup of tea’ was only the start. He kept quiet and out of the way for what little remained of the afternoon; once he stoked the fire, but mostly he sat with Giles’ book. He had abandoned chapter thirty and was working onward, in the hope of encountering a later clue, and it wasn’t working. Presently he slid back to the kitchen.

“Dinner in five, Giles.”

“Hmmmm?”

“Dinner. Five minutes. Finish your paragraph, mark where you’ve got to, save the document, go wash up.”

“What? Oh... I, I hadn't thought about dinner. I usually...”

“I thought about it. It’s steak because I know how to cook that, and some weird potato thing with cream in a foil tray from the store, and a store salad, and I have to say, Giles, even I can see that the vegetables in this part of the world aren’t real good. This is about as dull a salad as I’ve ever seen, but what the hell, it’s what there was. Hitting the table in four minutes now.” He held his breath, but he didn’t look around; he hoped that Giles might just give way if he thought that Xander wasn’t looking for... for approval or interaction or anything.

And yay for low-key-ness, because Giles did tap a couple of times at his computer and then get up and head for the bathroom.

By the time he came back, Xander was sliding the steak onto the plates; on one side of the table there was a small glass containing...

“Scotch?”

“They didn’t have the one I remember you drinking,” said Xander matter-of-factly, “and from the way they sniggered, I wasn’t saying the name right anyway, but the guy in the liquor store... you don’t call it that, do you?”

“Off-licence,” said Giles, staring at the plate as if he had never seen a steak before.

“Well, he said that if you liked that you would like this. I can’t pronounce this one either, so please like it because I don’t want to have to go back and try again. When you’ve eaten that, there’s a pie from the bakery on the corner. Apple and... blackcurrant, I think she said? I thought I couldn’t carry ice cream back with me, which was dumb because it was way cold enough, so it’s pie with pie, rather than à la mode.”

Giles, distracted, wrinkled his nose. “Not ice cream with apple tart. Custard with apple tart.”

“Have you got any custard?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll have my pie without ice cream and you can have your tart without custard.”

He got a faint and rather bewildered smile, and Giles did sit down and address his steak, although he hadn't much to say. He _did_ , to Xander's concealed delight, offer rather awkward thanks; he also had two helpings of pie, when Xander pointed out rather wistfully that it wasn’t a very _large_ pie, and generally, thought Xander, he was quiet and polite because he had no idea at all what Xander was trying to do and didn’t care to admit as much. He helped Xander to clear up, and then with an air of discomfort, retreated to his desk, his mood apparently darkening again.

“Put that bloody sleeping bag in the washing machine, Xander, I can smell it from here. You’ve let it get damp.”

Xander bit his lip to hold back the sharp remark that he hadn't _let_ it get anything, but he couldn’t argue with the contention that most of his belongings were less than fragrant. He did as he was told, adding some of his clothing, and pottering quietly about from fire to kitchen and coffee – Giles seemed bewildered by the accompanying plate of shortbread, but Xander had learned to like it – to tumble dryer in due course.

“Giles? May I use the shower?”

Giles didn’t look up. “Whatever you like as long as you’re bloody quiet.”

Good enough. He set the new shower gel on the side of the bath; it wasn’t the one he remembered Giles using, but at least it was better than store own brand. He shaved, carefully, selecting a new disposable razor for fear of cutting himself. He brushed his teeth, and then showered, washing his hair again.

One chance, Xander. One chance. And if he screwed this up his options were not good: Giles might stake him, Giles might throw him out in the snow, Giles might laugh scornfully, Xander might die of embarrassment. If this didn’t work, he might as well abandon all hope of ever bringing Giles round. Abandon all hope of ever being a Watcher. Might as well go back to America and join a construction team, and pretend that he had never heard of vampires outside an Anne Rice novel.

He made the bathroom tidy, and then took himself back outside; Giles, engrossed in his work, didn’t even lift his head, for which Xander was grateful. His sleeping bag appeared twice its normal size, fluffed up by the dryer; he knelt on it to fold it, and tucked it under the couch. Then he made up the fire inside the stove again, and straightened the pile of papers on the coffee table, until he admitted to himself that he was just finding himself things to do. He had a plan; either he was going to do it or not.

Showtime.


	44. Giles 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: this is the expository chapter, so talking and also some sex happen.

He was keeping a grip on himself, but it wasn’t easy. The translation on his desk was difficult and he was struggling to concentrate; he was preternaturally aware of Xander all the time, of where he was at least, and he found himself inclined to turn and look, to see what Xander was doing. _He did not need to know_ , he admonished himself, over and over. _He did not care_.

He had been much more aware than he had implied that Xander was working in the kitchen. He had heard every tiny noise of knife on board, and the hum of the oven. The supermarket potato thing had garlic in it and he could smell that as soon as it began to heat, even before Xander put the steak under the grill.

He had refused to think about what Xander was doing, other than to be aware of the elements of it. Xander needed to eat; Xander was arranging to feed himself. Somehow it hadn't occurred to him that Xander was intending to feed Giles; and when Xander called him to the table he was caught between wanting to snap that he didn’t want anything from Xander, and the knowledge that to say so would be petty and would make him ridiculous. Xander, pushing food and drink at him, was smoothly... almost indifferent; he gave Giles no hook on which to hang an argument, and the very fact that Giles _knew_ that he was looking for a hook, that a fight would be manufactured rather than organic, made it impossible for him to start one.

After dinner he did snarl about the sleeping bag, but Xander wouldn’t take the bait, just agreeing calmly with him, and then retreating to the bathroom. When the door opened again, he kept his head down and his eyes on his paperwork. He was primed to snap at Xander for making noise, but Xander gave him no opening; Giles could hear him tidying up, checking the dryer, and then settling by the fire. He did sneak one glance over his shoulder; Kay's head was tipped sideways and he was drying his hair... Xander. Xander's head.

He forced his mind to his work, and ignored the later sounds of Xander moving about again. Work. An hour’s solid, uninterrupted work.

He re-read his translation; he thought it was a good one. He eased his back, and stretched, shifting his shoulders. Tea.

Cut price blended tasted-like-sawdust tea. Or the Twinings Assam that Xander had brought in.

His pride told him to drink the supermarket tea.

His stomach told him to grovel at Xander's feet, begging for the Assam.

He stood up, and turned.

Kay was – _Xander_ was kneeling on the hearthrug with the orange light of the banked stove tinting his skin.

He was naked.

The end of his hair, not quite long enough to plait, hung over his right shoulder, with a leather tie trailing down his chest from it and another leather tie holding his slave tag in the hollow of his throat. He was half erect, which was made more obvious by the fact that he had... good _lord_ , he had shaved _everything._ His hands rested quietly on his thighs; his knees were parted.

Giles heard his own voice, and a tinge of panic in it, but he had no idea what he said – it was, he thought confusedly, just babble, worthy of Xander himself. He found himself half way across the room to Xander when a slight shift in the muscles of Xander's chest brought the brand up, sharply limned on the skin, and he jibbed, caught himself, and backed away again, taking refuge, as he had taken refuge so many times over the past months, in anger.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re _doing?_ What _is_ this? Let’s revisit Giles’ worst experiences? Let’s fuck up Giles’ mind, Giles’ life, Giles’ _world,_ more than we’ve done it already? What do you do for an encore: call Angel and get him to break my fingers? What do I have to _do_ to get you to _leave me alone?_ ” It started low and vicious, but by the end it was out of his control and he was shouting; his voice broke on the last words, and humiliatingly, he could feel tears of rage and despair on his cheeks.

Xander lifted his head.

“You have to tell me to go.”

Of all the things he might have said, that was the least comprehensible; Giles was startled into silence.

Xander's voice was low, and respectful, and utterly, utterly reasonable. “Master didn’t invite me here but I came; Master didn’t invite me to stay, but I stayed. Master didn’t seem pleased about it, but he never told me to go.”

His tongue didn’t quite seem to fit in his mouth. “You mustn’t call me that.”

Xander's gaze was steady. “Why not? It’s what you are.”

He managed a disdainful snort. “You know better than that. I know... Wesley Wyndham-Pryce explained it to you. I put that mark on your shoulder to _prove_ that it wasn’t so. Isn’t so.” He could hear the shame and self-contempt in his own voice, but Xander was shaking his head.

“Even I know that’s not how gifts work. The thing about a gift, Giles, is that once you’ve given it, it’s gone. It’s out of your hands, and the person you’ve given it to can do what they want with it. You gave me to me, and thank you, I’ve accepted your gift, so now it’s mine and I say what happens to it. I can keep it or give it away or send it to Goodwill or... I say that I belong to Master. To you.”

“No... no.” It was a desperate whimper.

“Giles... why not? Why are you so upset about it? You wanted it, on Coblan. Not to begin with: to begin with you were way horrified when I offered anything, and I get that. You’re a free consent sort of guy, and anyway, it was Xander and you had way more than enough trouble with Xander even _having_ a sex life, never mind a complicated one. Nearly as much trouble as I had with you having a sex life, never mind a complicated one. Add in that Xander didn’t know who Xander was or who Giles was or anything, and, and what did you call it? Stockholm syndrome? And Kay’s desperate need to please and the rest, and the very idea was way too wiggy for words. I _get_ that. By the end, you wanted it, I knew you did, but you turned me away, and that was free consent as well, wasn’t it? You thought that I couldn’t, that I didn’t know what I was offering. Well, I did – Kay did – but I can see why you might think I didn’t, and I can see why you might say no to Kay simply because Kay wasn’t... wasn’t altogether me. And now... Tell me you don’t want to, Giles, and I’ll put my clothes on and we’ll pretend that all this never, never happened. Never speak of it. Because I’ve watched you while I’ve been here and I dunno why I think so, but I think that you want it. That you want me.”

The silence was unbearable; he had to find some means of saying, calmly, politely, untruthfully, that Xander was wrong, that he should dress, that really, he should just go, go to wherever Bu... wherever the Slayer was, and her friends, and live his life without any of this crap. Because Giles didn’t, _didn’t_ want him. Wasn’t aching just at the sight of him, wasn’t wanting to touch that skin, to pull him to his feet, to wind a hand in his hair and use it to keep his head still while Giles took, and took, and _took_ , all the kisses he had imagined and dreamed of and longed for. Giles _never_ thought about having that bare body next to his own, or flexing under him, gasping with want and desire. Giles _never_ imagined punishing him for some slight, real or imagined, until Xander, flushed and tear-stained, promised to be good in a tone that itself promised that he had no such intention.

“Why not?” prompted Xander again, and thank all the gods that he was staying where he was on the hearth rug, because if he approached, Giles would... everything that was Giles would burn until not even a shell was left.

“Why not?”

It was hardly more than a whisper, and it had to be answered.

“Because I wanted it. Because even before... even before any of this started, I wanted it. All the things Buffy and Willow accused me of, I wanted to do. I thought about taking you to my bed on Coblan and you would have let me. I _thought_ about marking you as permanently mine; for a while I thought it was the only thing I could do, and even after I worked out how else it could be done, I tried to convince myself that you would be safer marked to me. Even when I lifted that brush in the yard, with you caged in front of me, I didn’t know until I touched you whether I was going to write your name or mine. I’m easily as guilty as they thought I was; I could be indignant and offended and cry that I would never have done such a thing, but I wanted to. I’m no better than the bloody slavers.” He heard the contempt in his voice; he waited for the contempt in Xander's. He wouldn’t turn away. He would see Xander's face as he realised what Giles was.

Xander's expression was blank for a moment as he processed it all; then he shifted towards... not anger, Giles had expected anger, but... irritation?

“Is this still a left-over from the Eyghon thing? Or from the fact that eventually Angelus got what he wanted from you? Do you have to pick up _all_ the guilt in the world?” He looked down at his chest. “You wrote my name. It would have worked, Wesley said so. So we didn’t need it in the end, but maybe the shock was what brought me round? If you hadn't done it, we might have been deep in the shit by now. O.K., so maybe some of your fantasies were... a little darker, a little dirtier than other people’s. You didn’t do anything about them.”

“I wanted to.”

Xander shrugged, a backlit delight of skin and muscle. “I don’t feel guilty about what I wanted to do with Amy Yip at the water park. My fantasies once or twice included persuading my dad out somewhere the vamps would get him. What do I go to prison for, Giles? Date rape? Murder? Because I’d have been as guilty if I’d let Spike have my dad as if I’d killed him myself, but I’m not. I didn’t do it. Thought about it, didn’t do it.”

Giles could see him mustering his thoughts.

“I told you on Coblan that I didn’t want to be free, I wanted to be yours, and you blew me off. And O.K., that was good, because, yeah, not so much with the informed consent. So I’ll take that back. I don’t want to be yours on Coblan terms. I want to be yours on my terms, mine and yours, because you came for me, and paid for me – and paid and paid and paid, and you never even thought about the cost until afterwards. You wouldn’t ever have asked to be paid back, Giles, would you? I don’t mean the money – that was a screw-up and we’re fixing that whatever way we can. I mean the real payment, what _Giles_ paid. And it should never have taken me half this long to work out _what_ Giles paid, and _why_ Giles paid.”

“I didn’t buy you,” he objected hoarsely, not quite understanding. Xander couldn’t know. He couldn’t know, not _know_. “Not for me.”

“No,” agreed Xander. “For me. You gave me to me. Now I want to give me to you.”

He was silenced. Bewildered. He couldn't decide if he was angry, or hurt, or hopeful or... or what.

“You know you want to,” whispered Xander, “you just admitted as much. You called me ‘sweetheart’, right at the end, do you remember? And you told me I was a good boy.” He paused, and a look of discovery crossed his face. “No, you didn’t. You told me I was _your_ good boy. _Yours_. It was true and it’s still true. It was true then; it’s now that you _deny_ it that you’re lying,” and Giles felt the insult rise even as he took two quick steps forward, his hand lifted, catching himself before the blow could fall. Xander didn’t flinch, just looked up at him.

“That’s why not,” he said harshly. “Because I wanted to have you, to possess you on my terms and you can’t trust me. When you were Kay, I wanted... You have no idea. _No_ idea. I told myself you would be happier if I took you to my bed, that you would feel safer, and I knew it was a lie, because as soon as you knew yourself again, you would know that I had betrayed you. You have no idea how much I wanted it. You can’t trust me.”

Xander didn’t look away. “That’s _why_. Because you wanted to and _you didn’t do it_. So I can trust you utterly. Kay knew that Master could be trusted completely, almost from the first day, and Kay was smarter than Xander, wasn’t he? The question now is whether or not I’ve convinced you that _you_ can trust _me_. You seem to think _I’m_ trying to hurt _you_ , Giles, and I’m not.” He was moving now, working himself forward on his knees, hands lifting, gentle up Giles’ thighs, drifting lightly over his fly, making him gasp, scattering his thoughts, more firmly on button and zip, working inside, slowly enough that if Giles could only have thought of the words, remembered the reasons, he could have said no.

Until Xander's mouth closed on him, and then No was lost in a haze of OhFuckYes. He heard the breath hiss between his teeth and wasn’t sure if it was a response to the sensation or to the situation, and very rapidly everything was lost _except_ the sensation and the pleasure. He wound a hand in Xander's hair, pulling the thong away, and simply let it happen, until his heartbeat eased, and he could open his eyes again. Xander's mouth looked swollen and his throat was convulsing as he swallowed, but his gaze was triumphant, and there could be no doubt that this was what he had wanted.

He managed a step away, Xander's hand falling lightly from his hip; he struggled to rearrange his clothing, and his body sent up a panicked message about the desirability of breathing on a regular basis.

“Touch yourself.” It didn’t sound like his own voice, but Xander obeyed, eyes hooding, tongue coming out to flick at his lower lip. His nose wrinkled endearingly when he came, and his head lolled back, but his eyes were fixed on Giles, even when Giles’ nerve broke and he turned and fled for the imaginary safety of his own room. Behind him, Xander spoke but he couldn’t make out the words.

They resolved themselves somewhere between his ear and his mind, hours later as he lay sleepless.

“That went well.”


	45. Xander 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: this is a BDSM fic, remember? BDSM-y things happen here. Also this is a large chapter so go to the loo and make a cup of tea first.

In the morning... he didn’t know what to do. He felt as if he had used up all his decisiveness the night before, as if pitting his will against Giles’ had left him empty. Giles was silent and remote, and there seemed to be no way to start a conversation. He fell back on care: he made coffee (instant – he’d bought a cheap coffee press the day before, and some proper coffee, because this place was even more under-provided than his basement had been, but it didn’t feel like the right time to break them out) and toast, and Giles accepted the former and ignored the latter. He’d _thought_ as much: Giles wasn’t eating right.

He guessed Giles was as much at a loss as he was himself: the Big Guy pushed the paper on his desk to and fro, and then sort of gathered himself and went to the stove. The fire was nearly out; Giles started to tidy it up, raking out the ash and cinders and shovelling them into a metal bucket from a kitchen cupboard; Xander watched him for a minute and then wordlessly held his hand out for the little brush and shovel. He could do that, and did, remaking the fire and fiddling with the vent system until he worked out what it did.

When he looked up, Giles had his coat and boots on; by the time Xander made it to the door, Giles was leading Ivo, heavily rugged, out of the stable and over to the snow-bound field. Xander looked up; the sky was a bright clear blue and although it was still bone-achingly cold, the wind had dropped. Ivo seemed bewildered by what had happened to his field; he nosed into the drifted snow behind the gate, and then suddenly took off at a gallop, bucking and twisting with apparent delight at being outside, and skidding back to the gate to put his nose in Giles’ outstretched hand before taking off again, followed by Giles’ laughter.

Xander didn’t know how long it had been since he had heard Giles laugh aloud, but it felt like a good omen. He pulled his own coat and boots on; Ivo couldn’t stay out there long, and the stable wouldn’t clean itself.

He had nearly finished when he heard the engine and heard the call; Giles was half way up the track to meet the mailman – no, that was wrong. Postman. At home the US Postal Service brought the mail; he was in Britain, where the Royal Mail brought the post. Or something. Just one letter, hardly worth the trip when the road was like this, he’d have thought, and Giles... seemed to agree with him. He was wearing the Arctic face again, Giles the Unemotional, Giles the Inscrutable. Fuck. What...

One letter. It had to be from Buffy. Nothing else would make the Big Guy look like that, like he had an unexploded bomb in his hand. He watched, unable to think of anything to say, as Giles took the letter into the house. His shape showed briefly at the window; the letter was going into the box, Xander guessed. That one, at least, he did understand. He’d understood it from early on, although it had taken him some time to put it into words: the depth of Giles’ rage and hurt at Buffy’s accusations were matched by – were the _result_ of – the depth of his love for her.

He understood something more, too. It had arrived during the night, as he thought about what Giles had said, about Giles admitting that he had wanted Xander, that he had thought about, had seriously considered, taking what he wanted when Xander would have refused him nothing. He had been thinking, once again, about how he, Xander, would have reacted if Willow and Buffy had accused him so cruelly of something he hadn't done, would never have thought of doing, and if they had refused to believe his denials. He had imagined how angry he would be if they had blown him off the way all three of them had blown off Giles.

Then he had imagined how he might have felt if they had accused him of something he hadn't done, but that had been a temptation to him.

He’d actually had to get up, to fetch himself a glass of water, to calm down and remember that it wasn’t real, because he had been shaking with fury imagining what they might have said. Why it should have made such a difference he didn’t know but it _did_ : it was bad enough imagining them thinking that he could have done a horrible thing when his conscience was clear not only about having done it, but about having considered doing it, but as soon as it was something that he would have wanted to do despite knowing that it was wrong, every emotion doubled and redoubled. He somehow didn’t doubt that Giles had felt the same: guilt about the temptation, rage and offence about the accusation, and somehow the fact of the temptation having been resisted didn’t carry any relief. It was as if the moral high ground was a help and a comfort when it was easily attained, but when getting onto it involved a climb and some serious effort, it was just another emotional burden. It made no sense; it was just the way he felt and somehow he didn’t doubt that Giles felt the same way, maybe... maybe because the whole thing made it impossible to _deny_ that the temptation had been felt? So Giles had been forced to face the fact that he’d _been_ tempted? And yeah, he could see how that would sting – nobody liked to think that they weren’t totally one of the good guys, and Giles had enough of that sort of baggage already on his own account without adding more of Xander's.

That was _so_ not fair. It was wrong that they had judged Giles guilty of something he hadn't done, and they had admitted that. It was _worse_ somehow that they had judged him guilty when it had taken real effort on his part not to do it. It was just another cost that Giles had incurred – and this one could never be mentioned, could never be discussed, not with Buffy or Willow, probably not with Xander. Giles had paid it, and that was all there was to be said. But one thing he was damn certain of: Giles didn’t get to punish himself for something he had maybe _wanted_ to do, but had never done. They had, all of them – Xander himself, and Buffy, and Willow, and the Council, and from the sounds of things, Giles’ family as well – they had all punished Giles for something he simply hadn't done; he didn’t get to punish himself because he had been tempted and had resisted the temptation. That one, he thought uneasily, maybe lay at their door too: they had all told Giles he was a bad person, and it sounded like somewhere deep down, he had believed them. One way or another, Giles had to be dragged past that. Maybe it wasn’t _just_ that – he could see that when money was really _really_ tight, Giles would have tightened his belt. No Scotch, no unnecessary books, everything of the cheapest. He hadn't slackened his belt off now that he could afford to, and that might be habit, and might be, might be whatever was going on in his head about guilt. Whatever: Xander didn’t know how he was stopping it, but he _was_ stopping it.

Once, back in the library days, Xander had said something about not being brave, not like Buffy. He’d been clowning as usual, and as usual, there had been half of a quarter of a tiny piece of something true because the only way he knew to talk about serious stuff was to make jokes of it. Giles had been somewhere in the book cage, not part of the conversation; later, when only Xander was left, Giles had said quietly, “Buffy isn’t all that brave, you know. She doesn’t feel the risk, the danger. She does what she does the way she does it, because it doesn’t really occur to her that it can go other than well. It did, once: when she faced the Master, when she knew that she would die, that was incredibly brave. Since then, she doesn’t think that anything can touch her. It isn’t brave to feel no fear, Xander. Bravery is when you know the risks, when you can feel them in your gut as well as understanding them in your mind, and you go on anyway.”

He had looked oddly at Giles, and gone home; he had totally missed the point of what Giles had said. He’d heard it as a criticism of Buffy; later, he supposed as he matured, he’d heard it as Giles justifying himself, and he’d begun to believe that Giles was brave.

Only now did he suddenly understand that Giles hadn’t meant that at all. He’d been trying to say – and Xander had been too young, too immature to understand – that Giles thought Xander was brave.

And this was the same, wasn’t it? It wouldn’t have been particularly virtuous of Giles to have turned Xander away if Giles hadn't been attracted to him. It would just have been the right thing to do. But when he could have justified taking what he wanted and the world would have believed his justification, when Giles did the right thing against his own desires...

He didn’t like the word _virtuous_. Or _honest_ , or _moral_. They were true but none of them seemed to be the right word for Giles. _Principled_? _Ethical_?

 _Good_?

He smiled a little to himself. Suddenly he was picturing Giles as one of the knights in armour from the storybooks he’d had as a kid, slaying dragons, rescuing fair maidens – well, rescuing dumb slave boys – not always doing things right, but always _trying_ and damn the personal consequences. He thought of saying as much to Giles, but he could just hear the response: “Don’t be so bloody sentimental.” It was true for all of that: yeah, so Giles was ticked about the messy stuff that had arisen from Xander and Buffy and Willow misjudging him – and he was entitled to be ticked, they knew that – but right at the start, when it all began to go wrong, Giles had come for Xander even though he’d been forbidden to do it by the Council, even though he must have known that they would give him a whole _world_ of trouble afterwards. He’d been willing to face them down because he was doing what he thought was the right thing to do. Knight in armour.

Then he pictured Giles as the hero in one of his comic books, drawn all square jaw and cheekbones, and gave himself the giggles. He didn’t think he could ever tell Giles that one, although actually, he thought that the slayage would make a damn good comic book. Sexy Slayer, clever powerful witch, comic relief dorky guy, and ever-reliable Watcher with a troubled past. Yeah, he guessed that would sell. But maybe Giles, in his own way, was like Xander: maybe Giles didn’t think he was a good man, the way Xander hadn't thought _he_ was brave. Maybe that was a leftover from the Eyghon thing, or from Buffy’s Cruciamentum, when he’d done the _wrong_ thing, however much he’d tried to put it right afterwards.

He called to Giles when the stable was clean again; he could think of no comment to make about the letter so said nothing about it.

“Do you want him put back in, or left out? It’s freaking cold out here.”

Giles came to look. “That’s long enough, it was just to let him stretch his legs. Can you check his feet and change his rug? He’s rolled in that one, it’s covered in snow. Put the blue one on him and hang that one over the rope to dry. Rub one of the rags down his hocks and make sure he’s not wet.” He was striding towards the stable himself; by the time Xander had sorted Ivo out, Giles was back in the house, and the kitchen table was covered in leatherwork.

He’d seen Giles do this before; sometimes when the weather was fine, he would take a chair outside in the evening, and clean Ivo’s tack. Well, that had to be much the same as cleaning scabbards and swordbelts, right? Leather soap and rags? Xander sat down opposite Giles and picked up a rag.

“Are these set out in some order?” He’d done strapwork jigsaw puzzles way too many times in the library days.

Giles shook his head; he had the saddle braced on his thigh.

“’Kay. And can I use this tin of stuff on everything?”

“Not on the bit. That hinged metal thing. That goes in his mouth, so give it a rub with toothpaste and then put it to soak in the sink, just in water. The other metal parts, use that wadding. Everything else, yes.”

They worked together for a half hour or so; Xander hoped it was companionable silence but he could almost hear the cogs turn in Giles’ mind. Nonetheless, when Giles spoke, Xander jumped.

“What, what do you want from me?”

 _Everything_ , he thought, but he had more sense than to say it. “Anything you’re willing to give me.”

Giles shook his head crossly. “Tell me what you want. I can’t...” He broke off. He couldn’t what? Give Xander anything? Decide what to give him?

“Just talk, Xander. It’s never been a problem to you before.”

Ow. “I want to... I want... Well, I want Master.” It sounded weird, middle of the morning, over a dismantled bridle. This was _so_ not a daylight conversation, but Giles was shaking his head again.

“I can’t... not if...” He stopped, took a breath and tried again. “If you want to live the lifestyle full time, I can’t and I won’t. If you want to be a full time sl... pet, I can’t do that for you. It’s not... it’s not a... Being a Top is what I _do_ , not what I _am_. Even when I said... What I said about wanting it before, I never wanted it as a permanent thing.” He sounded tired and resigned; Xander suddenly understood.

“And _again_ with the thinking that it’s a, a, a chore! ‘Kay. Let’s try again. Let’s go with what I _don’t_ want. We were talking about informed consent yesterday? Remember that, Giles? I’m not interested in anything you don’t agree to. You don’t want it? I don’t want it. You seriously, honestly, want me to go? I’ll go. No, I don’t really want to be a pet, not a Coblan pet. What I want... yeah, I know, I’ll tell you what I want. I want to be your squire.”

He’d wanted Giles to feel something that wasn’t pissed; he hadn't expected the something to be ‘startled’.

“My _squire?_ ”

“Isn’t that right? Isn’t that how being a squire works? That you teach me how to do what you do, and in exchange I look after you? I clean up after Ivo and I look after the swords and I’ll cook if you want but I think you would be better doing that yourself, because what you ate last night just about exhausts what I know how to cook, but I can keep this place clean and tidy, I know how. And you teach me how to be a Watcher.”

“I’ll grant that you’ve shown more conviction, more determination than I credited you with. Can you keep that up?”

“If you help me. And if I don’t...” He glanced sideways at Giles. “We already know I’m not too big to go over your knee.”

“If that reminded you... if that was the way... I couldn’t do it. And if it didn’t remind you, if it could be the way it was before, before... then it would hardly be a sanction.”

That was a sentence worthy of Xander himself in pure incomprehensibility, and perhaps because of that, he comprehended it perfectly. “No, but it would, Giles. Yeah, I’d _like_ it if you just wanted to do it, like you did in...” The names ‘Serpentine’ and ‘Ryan’ loomed, and he backed off. “A bit of... if you...”

Giles, mercifully, nodded his own comprehension.

“But if I’d actually done something _real_ to deserve it? Giles, I’ve _had_ some guy beat me for my failings and it was _so_ not hot. And you did it, you punished me when I knew I deserved it – yeah, I _know_ you think I didn’t but it was about what was happening in _my_ head – and that wasn’t hot either, _because_ I knew I deserved it. O.K., we both know I’m lazy. I’m working on it but we both know too that I’m likely to...” He fumbled for a word.

“Backslide?”

“Yeah. And you’ll be annoyed by it. So snap me out of it. I get that if I want to be a Watcher, I don’t get to be one part time. It’s like a little bit pregnant. It’s yes or no.”

“Binary,” murmured Giles. “Marmite. But it’s what you want?”

“To start with.”

Giles swallowed hard. “And to go on with? Last night you wanted...”

“Last night we both wanted,” said Xander, more decidedly than he felt. “And I don’t see why we can’t have it. I’d like to be your pet _sometimes._ I’d like to be Kay, _sometimes._ But not if you... not if it really wigs you.”

Giles grunted, but Xander was getting a major vibe that there was something more. “Giles... Seriously. Not if it wigs you. And not if you’re still mad at me. Or you think that somebody owes somebody something. Or...”

Giles levelled a stare at him. “Just... back off, Xander. You told me I needed to stop being angry, didn’t you? Well, I’m trying. It’s not easy. You _said_ I’d been angry for so long that I’d forgotten how to be anything else.”

He got it. He got what Giles wasn’t saying. Whatever lay between him and Giles, Giles was still mad at Buffy, and Buffy was Xander's friend. That... was more difficult. Their relationship had always been more complicated than either of them would admit.

But Giles was all about the head, about the thinking, not so much with the feeling. Xander held his tongue.

He held his tongue all the way through bridle cleaning, and bridle reconstruction (Giles did that) and through the making of grilled cheese for lunch (Xander did that, having remembered that steak wasn’t actually the only thing he could cook; he thought he would wait a while before introducing Giles to the glories of canned soup à la Xander). Then while he was making with the soapy water and the plates, and Giles was drying things and putting them away, he said, without turning his head away from the kitchen window and the white scene outside, “O.K., I’m not saying that I don’t have an opinion on whether or not you should talk to Buffy. Of course I do, you know I do and you know what it is. But I do get that it’s not my business, whatever there is between you and her, and I’m not interfering. I’ll go on talking to her, and if you’ll train me, I’ll not keep that from her – well, wouldn't be real smart, if the idea is to give her a new Watcher. But I get that things are different and they aren’t ever going to be the way they were before, not now. I won’t ask you to talk to her if you don’t want to and I won’t...” He hesitated, not quite finding the words he wanted. “I won’t let her use me as a way to get to you.”

For a moment, there was no sound other than bursting bubbles and Giles sorting forks.

“Thank you.”

He looked back over his shoulder inadvertently, but... Giles didn’t _look_ as if he was being sarcastic.

“No, really, Xander. You’ve... you’ve given me a certain amount to think about, but I’m not ready to talk to the Slay... to Buffy.”

Well, that was progress, Xander guessed. He’d said her name.

“Will, will you make some coffee? I don’t think we can do anything useful outside today.”

Xander sighed. That meant the book again.

They did end up sharing the couch, rather awkwardly. Giles had a book in a language Xander didn’t recognise, and was making copious notes in a cheap spiral-bound notebook. Xander struggled on with another incomprehensible chapter. He was beginning – past beginning – to be worried: he could make nothing of it, and Giles thought this was _basic_ knowledge?

The room was warm, and the book was giving him jello brain; he caught himself twice, head jerking as he came back out of the fog. He _was_ concentrating on his book, he _was_. It was just that the book was difficult, and Giles’ shoulder was comfortable, specially when Giles turned a little towards him, but he knew that he would be even more comfortable if he just slid down and rested his cheek on Master’s thigh.

He drifted back up out of sleep to feel Master’s fingers on his neck under his hair, and for a moment or two he just basked in the comfort of it before he thought that actually, it _wasn’t_ that comfortable. The couch was way shorter than the one on Coblan had been, so he hadn't room to get his legs up; he was twisted with his feet still on the floor, but his head in Master’s lap.

Oh crap, he had snuggled down on Giles. Talk about pushy, when he’d been trying to be all reasonable and let’s-negotiate guy.

But Giles didn’t actually seem to be minding very much: his fingers were working very slowly through Xander's hair and tickling his neck, and presently Giles spoke.

“I know you’re not asleep.”

Damn. He sat up, rubbing his face. “Sorry. I was, though.”

“Build up the fire a bit, will you? I’ll go and make sure everything’s shut up outside.”

The door banged open again a few minutes later; Xander looked up. Giles hung up his coat, and turned, stone-faced.

“I’ve come to a decision. I have to say, I, I don’t know why I’ve decided what I have, and my intellect says I’m crazy, but...”

He was holding the black whip he carried when he rode Ivo. Xander's mouth went dry; his breath caught.

“You know how the contract is made.”

And now that it came to it, he was terrified. He pushed up, out of the couch’s embrace, and took two rather shaky steps towards Giles.

“Do you belong to me?”

That one was easy; he didn’t even take a breath. “Yes, Giles.” Giles, not Master. He wasn’t falling for _that_ one.

“Strip.”

It wasn’t a dignified process; everything came off, even socks, but not in any sort of elegant order. Then, hoping that he had understood what Giles meant, Xander turned towards the door, and rested his hands against it, head lowered. The whip tapped at his shoulders; his skin itched with anticipation.

The noise caught him by surprise, reaching his brain before the pain. He had forgotten how loud a whip was, laid across the shoulders.

He had forgotten how loud he was when a whip was laid across his shoulders.

“You were expecting a little flick just for form’s sake?” enquired Giles affably. The whip hissed, and fire bloomed across his calves. He squealed and stamped. It hadn't take long, he thought confusedly, for the Coblan training to wear off. A year ago, he’d have endured in silence. The blow across the tender flesh of his thighs had Giles’ weight behind it, and he yelled, his voice breaking into a sob.

Giles voice was emotionless. “You know how it works. The contract isn’t complete until you’ve acknowledged it and you’re marked four times. You can still deny it. If it’s not what you want, you can deny it. I told you once: I don’t whip my pets. I make no such promise about my squire.”

He heard his breath whistle in and out in great gasping pants, but he managed to look over his shoulder at Giles, who had stepped back, the whip lowered. It wasn’t real, he knew that. He couldn’t be enslaved this way again: it was a pretence, a fantasy. He could deny it. He could say that no, he had made a mistake, this wasn’t at all what he had in mind. He could say that he wanted to be loved and petted and fussed over and _looked after_ , the way he never in his whole life had been, except – and he quite saw the irony – except when he had been another man’s property, collared and owned, on a strange other world.

He could say no. He didn’t want – he did _not_ want – a fourth stroke like the previous three. Only... Only he felt the guilt he had been carrying for months crack and flake away under this pain inflicted by the man he had so badly betrayed. He felt better for it, and somehow he thought that Giles felt better for it too. He knew what he wanted; he was damn sure that this was all the punishment he would ever receive for the post-Coblan fuck-up, and he wanted it all.

He steadied himself, let his hands slide down the door, backed away from it, back flat, ass offered. The whip touched his skin, delicately, and for the shortest imaginable moment, he thought that Giles _did_ intend just a tap, for form’s sake. Then the crop slammed across his ass, and he howled, tipping forward and almost, almost hitting his head on the door.

Almost, but not quite, because Giles had him. He wasn’t certain how – damn but the man was _fast!_ – but Giles had him, and he could grab back at Giles, shove his face against Giles’ neck, and simply hang on while the pain coasted through his whole body. He could hear himself making ridiculous little ‘oh! oh!’ noises, and he was shaking, but Giles had him, an arm around his waist, and the other hand stroking him, touching his hair, running a fingertip across the blazing weal on his shoulders, comforting him until he could breathe easily again, until he was calm.

“Tell me why I did that.”

He rested his cheek on Giles’ shoulder, somehow, even though he had never experienced it, expecting tweed and vaguely surprised to feel a rough wool sweater. “To show me... I don’t know. Because you can?” Because it made things right between them, but he knew better than to say that out loud. They both knew it.

The slow comforting hand never stopped. “Not precisely, although that’s part of it. Try again.”

Hell, twenty questions? “To stop me being a pushy bottom?”

That got a low snort of amusement. “I didn’t think of that, but if it’s a side-effect I’ll take it.”

“To show me... that you weren’t going to go easy on me?”

“Again, not precisely. Perhaps I could word the question better. By what _right_ did I do it?”

He frowned. He didn’t want to play this game; he never liked it when Giles tried to make him work things out for himself. But maybe that was another aspect of his laziness? That Giles knew he knew, and was just not bothering, just waiting for Giles to come up with the answer?

“By whose permission, Xander?”

His frown was going to make his eyebrows fall off if it twisted his face any further. “You don’t need permission. You’re Master.”

That earned him a powerful slap on the ass, on top of the welt; he yelped. Wrong answer, obviously.

“Who says I can do it?”

And suddenly it was obvious. “Me. I said so.”

Giles drew back, and he was smiling. _Right_ answer. “I do it by your permission and with your consent, and you can withdraw them at _any_ time, do you understand that? Have you got a safe word?”

Now that he was thinking, he was _thinking._ “That doesn’t work. It works O.K. if it’s,” and even now, even stripped and striped and in Giles’ arms, he blushed at saying it out loud, “sex. But if it’s Watcher stuff... that doesn’t work if I get to dodge out.”

“Xander...”

“No, Giles, it doesn’t. You didn’t get to use a safe word with what’s his name, Westenra, did you?”

Giles gave an odd, unexpected huff of laughter. “I can just picture his face if I’d tried. But I could have said no. He would have thrown me out, and I doubt if complaining to the Council would have helped – I’m not sure that they have an HR department even now – but he wouldn’t have forced me.”

“Well, I don’t believe you would force me either. But if it’s punishment, I don’t get to safe word out, or to say it’s not fair and I won’t do it. Not unless... well, like it was for you. Not unless I’m willing to take the risk that you’ll ditch me from the programme. That’s how punishment works.”

Giles pursed his lips. “What if you change your mind? You’re closing doors, Xander. You don’t want to put power in my hands that you can’t take back.”

“Then I have to tell you some time when you’re not wanting to give me a hiding for screwing up. Can’t get off the roller coaster other than at the station. I trust you not to be, um, unreasonable? Vicious? I trust you that if I say something really isn’t fair or right, you’ll listen to me, we can work it out. But then you gotta trust me as well. Trust me that I might say it because I don’t understand, but I won’t say it just because I don’t like facing the consequences if I _do_ screw up. You can trust me that I’m not gonna let you break me. I know you’ll hurt me, but I won’t allow you to harm me.”

Giles considered that carefully, and nodded. “Safe word otherwise?”

“Um... Red, yellow, green for ordinary, but hang on, I want a new one, not the one I had before. ‘Coblan’ for emergencies?”

“That’ll do,” and suddenly he was back in Giles’ powerful grip, and Giles mouth was on his, and whoa but it felt like a dislocation in the world, until Giles drew back, and rather thickly said, “And hereby I take you into my household. Now, get those cushions on the floor because my bedroom is far too bloody cold for what I want to do; I’ll fetch the duvet and we’ll stay out here.” 


	46. Giles 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: more BDSM stuff and men having sex.

He still didn’t know precisely what had prompted him to enter into an, an, an _agreement_ like this (the word _relationship_ wandered into his mind but he flapped his arms at it until it ran away). It had so many factors making ‘no’ the only conceivable answer: his age, Xander's age, the relationship they had had for years, his history, Xander's history, their _shared_ history, Coblan, Kay, Buffy (his mind still shied away from that one), Willow (ditto), the fact that he was a Watcher, the fact that technically he _wasn’t_ a Watcher any more, the fact that Xander wasn’t a trainee Watcher, the fact that the Council wouldn’t accept Xander as a trainee Watcher... They all said no, and they said it loudly.

And yet it was yes. Xander was dragging the couch cushions onto the rug, spreading the duvet on top, doubling his sleeping bag and shoving it into place as a makeshift pillow. Giles dragged his mind out of the gutter – naked Xander with a blue line across his arse, a line that Giles had put there, making a nest in which they could have sex – and applied himself to renewing the wards on doors and windows; outside the snow had begin to fall silently again, and he thought that they were unlikely to be interrupted by anything living or undead, but he hadn't lived so long with various evil things trying to kill him by omitting basic precautions.

He turned back, trying not to let his breath catch at the sight of Xander, and was hit by a sudden panic.

“Are, are you...”

“Giles, if you ask if I’m sure, I’m gonna scream and burst into tears and we’ll both be totally embarrassed. We are _way_ past ‘am I sure’.”

Well... yes, he supposed they were. He knelt, rather awkwardly, beside Xander, who reached greedily for him.

“Too many clothes, Giles.”

Yes, well, that was another... not that he could do anything about it. He allowed Xander to take his sweater, and started to unbutton his shirt, but Xander's hands pushed his out of the way there too.

“Let me, Master?”

And for all he had told Xander – and Kay – not to call him that, it gave him a terrific charge – and Xander, from his smile, knew it. Nonetheless, his breath came a little fast when the shirt was pushed off his shoulders. His body...

“You are _way_ too thin,” observed Xander disapprovingly; “as soon as the snow stops, can we go to... somewhere bigger than the town, with decent stores and maybe a mall, and stock up? I am totally, you understand, in favour of us spending a week in bed when the weather’s bad – which seems to be most of the time here – but we need a freezer full of pizza first. And soda. And chips. Crisps. Whatever you want to call them.” His hands ghosted over Giles’ chest, touching whole skin and scars without discriminating.

“Junk food won’t help with your training,” objected Giles mildly, light-headed with relief. He had feared... he didn’t quite know what. It wasn’t after all as if Xander didn’t _know_ that he was scarred. He’d seen Giles’ chest often enough, bandaged it more than once, but knowing about it in the librarian or the Watcher and accepting it in a lover were totally different things.

Xander made a face. “I’ll eat healthy if you’ll eat _more_.”

“Healthily,” corrected Giles, wincing.

“Don’t change the subject. You look twenty pounds underweight. I can count your ribs.”

“Don’t _fuss_ , I’m not...”

“Yeah, you _are,_ and I just thought, that’s my job, yeah? Feeding you? Looking after you?”

It gave him an odd sensation; it was a long time since _anybody_ had ‘looked after’ him. He had rather assumed that it would be his job to look after Xander. Xander, watching him closely, nodded shrewdly. “My job and I’m gonna do it.” He set his hand in the middle of Giles’ chest and pushed gently. “Starting now. Could make you feel good. Had the training.”

Giles winced again. “Is that... I don’t want...” but it seemed Xander understood.

“Giles... that stuff that happened – it happened. Can’t make it not have happened. So I’m gonna own it, make it... it was horrible but if I take it over, if I use it, then I’m... not so helpless? Not so much a victim? They taught me how to please a guy: so O.K., the way they taught me wasn’t great, but _what_ they taught me, that’s good stuff. I’m so taking that.”

“Not yet,” he said decisively. He did understand what Xander meant: in the aftermath of Angelus, he had continued to fight against vampires not merely because it was what a Watcher _did_ but also because it felt like a refusal to accept that he might be broken, a refusal to allow himself to be defined by what Angelus had done specifically to him. He _would_ allow Xander to... perhaps not to ‘look after’ him, but to take a half share of the basic work that kept everything else going, and thereby free him up for...

Well. For Watching. For training a new Watcher and thus for accepting that Buffy needed a Watcher and wasn’t likely to take one from the Council, and that therefore he continued, like it or not, abjuration or not, to _be_ her Watcher. He didn’t know if it was possible to unravel an abjuration, or to... this was not the time to think about that, to think about whether it was possible and whether he wanted it. This was the time to think about Xander. About Kay. “Not yet. This time I’m going to make _you_ feel good.”

“Giles...”

“Are you arguing with me?”

“I just wanted...”

“Are you _arguing_ with _me?_ ” The tone, silkily threatening, came naturally with the glare, and he saw Xander shiver.

“No, sir?”

“Do I need to remind you of the unwisdom of arguing with me? Perhaps I do. Hands and knees, please, at once.”

He was gratified to see Xander scramble into position without hesitation; he was amused to see that the first powerful slap elicited both a squeak of surprise and a shift of Xander's thigh muscles, first away in the body’s automatic retreat from pain, and then invitingly back, prompting for more.

The spanking he delivered was a long way from cruel – it wasn’t, after all, intended as a serious punishment – but it was as thorough as it needed to be in the light of their understanding, their contract, and Xander was fidgeting by the time he slowed, his lip caught between his teeth, face flushed. Giles had been careful to avoid the straight marks of the crop, but... well, after all, he was Master. He could do as he liked.

“Ow!”

Four _hard_ applications of palm to skin, covering the lines on rump and thigh, left and right. Xander definitely felt those. He set his hand at the back of Xander's waist and pushed. “Lie down, and keep still until I say you may move.”

Xander dropped, instantly obedient – oh, Giles _liked_ this. Liked it a _lot._ Liked touching and tasting the broad expanses of skin over Xander's shoulders and back. Liked kissing and nipping the nape of his neck. Liked stroking the flushed skin of arse and thighs and feeling Xander's hastily controlled squirm. He knelt between Xander's parted legs, and let his fingers trail lightly up and down.

“What shall I do with you?”

Xander's own fingers were clawed into the cushions below him; he didn’t respond. Giles patted his bottom warningly. “I asked you a question. I expect an answer. What shall I do with you?”

“Anything you like, Master.”

The second pat was closer to an approving caress. “What would _you_ like? I want to know. I don’t guarantee to do it. What shall it be? Shall I jerk you off? Suck you? Make you suck me?”

Xander shuddered. “Fuck me, please?”

Ah. He heard the regret in his own tone. “I’ve nothing... I haven’t a condom. And I’m _not_ putting you at risk without one so don’t even suggest it.”

Xander pushed up onto one elbow and stretched out the other hand; then he froze, glanced guiltily over his shoulder and meekly accepted the spank. That one _was_ a punishment and it was delivered hard enough to make him yelp.

“There’s a pack of condoms and some lube in my bag,” he said breathlessly. “Please?”

Giles pursed his lips. “I don’t know whether to pet you for being well-prepared or spank you for having made wholly unwarranted assumptions.”

“Both?” suggested Xander cheekily.

“Could be arranged. Fetch them out, then.”

He took his time about preparation, until Xander was writhing on his fingers and making soft throaty noises; then he hastily worked out of his remaining clothes.

“Turn over.” He wanted to be face to face. For all Xander seemed quite definite that his history as a houseboy, and then as Giles’ pet, didn’t preclude a liking for a degree of kink and for sex generally, this was something where physical proof outweighed the spoken word. This first time, Giles would have preferred to go slowly, to be gentle to the point of tenderness, but he understood that such things were for another occasion. This time was the affirmation of the relationship they had negotiated and it _had_ to be a display of submission on Xander's part and dominance on his. Nevertheless, Giles, for all he was acting – more than acting: _being_ – the Master who simply took what he wanted, was watching for any hint of discomfort, not so much physical as emotional.

He saw it. Xander's expression was shifting a little.

“Um... you know what I said about what they taught me? It, um, didn’t actually go this far.”

Giles froze; Xander read his mind. “Not a virgin – well, Chad, yeah? And he wasn’t the first. But been a long time, and, and you know, on Coblan the interlocking bits didn’t interlock, so more with the theory than the practice, although I do know about giving a good blowjob, and I can... um...”

“Xander,” said Giles, exerting every ounce of self-control, “are you telling me you don’t want to do this, you’ve changed your mind, or asking me to be gentle, or what? Please use words, preferably in coherent sentences.”

Xander blushed. “Gentle? Please? This time? And... not too fast? Need to get back in practice?”

“Oh, you’ll get practice,” Giles assured him. “Particularly when it’s warmer.”

“Huh?”

“I’m going to have you over your own saw horse.”

Xander made a strangled noise.

“And over the saddle stand. Possibly on a hay bale. At least once when you’re just holding your ankles.”

“You’ve given this some thought?”

“Quite a lot, yes.”

“Do I – get a – vote?”

“I’ll hear it, but I have right of veto.”

“Your desk.”

“Desk. Yes.”

“And please when you’re wearing your armour?”

He lost his stroke. “Have you been watching ‘Excalibur’?”

“Huh?”

“The film. ‘Excalibur’. Gabriel Byrne gets Katrine Boorman pregnant without taking his armour off.”

“Don’t want to be pregnant, think it would be an unnecessary complication, but _definitely_ want to have sex with you in your armour. Wicked Sir Rupert is definitely – oh yes, just there, oh please yes – Wicked Sir Rupert is fucking _hot!_ ”

 “Noted.” He was settling into a comfortable rhythm now, and Xander was straining to meet him.

“Want – to sleep – with you.”

“I was under the impression that we were already...”

“No, not sex. Want to – _sleep_ with – you. You said...”

Xander wanted to share his bed? The word _relationship_ broke back in, grinning to itself and looking smug.

“Warmer, apart from anything else.”

Well, that had to be a bonus. And it would be warmer still if he spanked Xander first. He made a note to do that. There was no need to warn Xander.

Afterwards he lay with his mind in a pleasant haze, Xander's head on his shoulder, Xander's eyelashes tickling his skin. Of all the things he had ever imagined – and he had imagined plenty – he had never imagined the brush of Xander's eyelashes.

“A good pet gets a reward. What would you like?” Good lord, had that been him? It had certainly sounded like his voice.

Xander's head came up; he looked as startled as Giles felt so he would have to carry through. It was good for Xander to be kept off-balance.

“What would I _like?_ ”

“That’s what I said.”

Xander sat up, and wrapped his arms around his knees while he thought. Presently, he shifted over until he could open the stove and make up the fire.

“Can I choose something selfish?”  

“What?”

“Stop cutting your hair.”

So that was Giles off-balance. “Stop...?”

“Your hair. Let it grow out a bit? I don’t like the way you have it, it looks... brutal. I – it makes you look... it’s not the Giles from Sunnydale and it’s not Master either.”

“I’m not Giles from Sunnydale any more.”

“No,” agreed Xander sadly, “but... Look, it doesn’t matter. I just thought... It doesn’t matter.”

His conscience pricked him. He had offered, after all, and he had no reason to object. He did actually know what Xander meant. He had cut his hair short partly _because_ he wasn’t Giles from Sunnydale: he had wanted to break every possible link with that part of his life, as he had done after Eyghon, and that had included changing his appearance – as he had done after Eyghon. He had got rid of the tweed, he had gone to his optician and demanded contact lenses,  he had given up the soft haircut Jenny had liked in favour of a military clip. If he was going to consider reconciling the various parts of his life, perhaps even some of the small things needed to be addressed.

“I’ll give you that one for nothing.”

There was a silence in which Xander sat again, head cocked while he thought. Presently his head turned towards the window, and Giles followed his gaze to the box of Buffy’s letters. Oh fuck. Of course the boy would have snooped. Of _course_ he would. He knew what was there. He would demand that Giles read them and...

“Then, I know.” But Xander was reaching for his bag again, pulling out his sponge bag of all things. There was a side pocket; a comb showed over the lip, and Xander was dragging out a tangle of the leather thongs he used to tie up his hair. Out of the middle of them something slipped, dropping between them.

His ring. He hadn't known that Xander had it, although he supposed it wasn’t surprising. The last time he had seen it, Buffy had been wearing it around her neck. Xander picked it up, and held it out to him.

“I... you got this when you became a Watcher, yeah? That’s what chapter five of the book is all about?”

He didn’t answer but Xander nodded sharply as if he had. “And if your Slayer had died, you would have gone on wearing it.”

He looked away.

“’Kay. I’m not asking you to wear it. I get that... I get that there’s a lot I don’t get. Just... put it in the box with the letters – yeah, I know you know I know about the letters. Put it in the box. Buffy brought it... she sorta had some idea that she might refuse to accept your resignation, almost, and I get that _that_ doesn’t work but... at least take it back?”

He could do that. It could live in the box with the letters. Xander was trying not to push him too hard.

Buffy was trying not to push him too hard.

He let Xander drop the ring into his palm; then he leaned over in turn and pulled one of the leather ties out of the tangled tyet on Xander's lap. An end slid through his ring; the knot lay flat at the back of his neck.

He could give them that much.

He _would_ give them that much.


	47. Giles 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter warnings: the end! This is the end! There is no more!
> 
> Well, actually there is. There's a [sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1165800/chapters/2370646), because... well, because Reasons.

He woke to a watchful stillness, like an animal; it had been some considerable time since he had willingly shared his bed other than for sex: Murna never actually _slept_ with him. He thought that perhaps she had felt vulnerable indoors. For the shortest imaginable moment, he was startled by the body cuddled up against him, before his brain caught up with his body, and gave him Xander's name. He shifted and stretched, turning onto his back, and Xander gave a mew of objection and tried to snuggle back in.

He had a... a what? A lover? Xander Harris. Xander Harris was Rupert Giles’ lover. That made his brain hurt.

He had a pet? No. He didn’t mind that as rôle-play in a club, but he had never been comfortable with the people who wanted it as a full time lifestyle, and after Coblan... No.

He had a squire. Yes, actually, he could go with that one. He had a trainee, with whom he was going to engage on terms of some intimacy. He was going to train Xander to be a Watcher, and in exchange Xander was going to serve him, and that service apparently – and Xander claimed to be favour of this – included some fairly remarkable sex. Giles would never forgive Chad for what he had done, and if it lay within his power, he would at some point in the future make things very unpleasant for the demon, but there was no denying that one consequence of Chad’s dealings with Xander was that Xander did indeed have a remarkably talented mouth.

So Giles was all in favour of it too.

He had a squire. He would have to make some plans about what he intended to teach Xander, and how: his inclination was to immerse Xander in books, but he knew that it wouldn’t work. He had seen that Xander was struggling even with the basic text he had provided. Xander wouldn’t read and absorb the information he needed – although he had tried. No, he would do better to be told, and shown, and the theory of Watching and such magics as were involved would need to be fed to him in small amounts with frequent forays into the more physical aspects which Giles thought would come more easily to him.

It would be fascinating, with two of them, and with the Slayer apparently still at odds with the Council. He was interested by that, despite himself. The older Watchers still apparently believed that the Slayer served the Council; Giles himself knew that to be arrant nonsense. The Council served the Slayer; a Slayer could exist without a Watcher but a Watcher without a Slayer was nothing more than a researcher. Yes, it would be interesting. There had been schisms in the Council before, many times. The current structure was relatively recent, dating only from the mid 1550s when Meurig ap Meredydd had ousted the Council of Benet Dudley.

It suddenly occurred to him to wonder about Buffy’s first Watcher. Steven Sampson, who had trained with him, had wanted to study Watcher genes; it was well known that Watcher blood was unpredictable. Some families – the Gileses, the Carnackis, the Silences, the Caddicks – bred remarkably true to type, and at least one of every generation could be expected to turn up on the Active Watcher shortlist. Others did not; of every intake of trainees, about a third would be the old familiar names and the remainder would be newcomers, and nobody knew why Watcher family traits showed in every child in one generation, and then not again for two or three in some families, or only in the girls in another, or only in the eldest in a third, or appeared out of the blue in some child with no Watcher connections at all. They didn’t really even know what the traits actually _were_ : it had to be something more than just training, because not every individual who trained was suitable to act for and with a Slayer; he knew that he had recognised _something_ in Xander that said ‘Watcher material!’ but he had no idea _what_ it was he had seen. It was, he thought, just as well that they didn’t know, and that they knew that they didn’t know, because some of those senior bampots (he rather liked the local usages) were in-bred enough – the Travers, the Maltravers, the Pryces and Wyndhams and Wyndham-Pryces and Wyndham-Travers – without them _trying_ to breed for the Watcher characteristics. They tended to marry each other because they met nobody else, or because nobody else understood their work (or in the case of the Travers and Maltravers, for money and power), but the thought of them deliberately marrying for the bloodline gave him, as Bu... as the Slayer would put it, some serious wig.

But Merrick... he had known nothing about Merrick except his existence on the list. Now he wondered if the anglicised version of Meurig was merely a coincidence.

Steven Sampson had died before ever he left his training; as far as Giles knew, nobody else had ever picked up his sketchy researches.

Yes, he would need to give this some thought. The bloody Council had messed him about long enough, and his Slayer too. _His_ Slayer. If she wouldn’t go back to them, then she was _his_ Slayer. And if the Slayer’s Watcher was at odds with the rest of the Council, then... then there needed to be a new Council. Say, one with a Head Watcher, and some trainees... well, one trainee, and perhaps a magical practitioner.

Oh, it was a pretty fantasy, he didn’t pretend it was anything more, but... he wouldn’t mind giving Travers – and Holmforth and Esterhazy and Caddick and above all else, David Giles – something to keep them awake at night. Some suggestion that there was a breakaway Council and that the breakaway Council had some real power because it _had the Slayer_.

Meanwhile he had a squire and he had to think about training that squire and...

Oh.

He dug Xander in the ribs. Xander made a weird complaining sound.

“Are you, do you still want to be my squire?”

Xander's head came up, hair tousled, eyes panicked but still stupid with sleep. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about letting me?”

“Not at all,” said Giles affably. “You still intend to pay me in service?”

Xander began to smile, obviously on the wrong track. “Oh yes,” he assured Giles, lasciviously.

“Excellent. In that case, you can get up and make the coffee.”

“Huh?”

“Coffee.”

Xander frowned, waking up properly. “Uh. Right. Yeah. Coffee.” He swung his legs out of bed, and stood up with the careless ease of youth – Giles usually had to sit on the bed for a moment and _think_ about getting up before it could be achieved – and Giles, in turn, made an odd sound. Xander turned back to look at him, and Giles leaned over to touch the bruise bisecting his arse.

“Might have overdone those a bit to make the point. There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom: put something on them before you get dressed.”

Xander smiled innocently. “I’d rather you put something on them.”

Giles thought about it. “Well, that, that might be more proper,” he allowed. “Because if I punish you, you won’t be allowed anything by way of, of salve. And actually, even if it isn’t punishment, I, I might not want you to ease the sting.”

“Better if you control the first aid kit, then,” commented Xander, pulling on his shorts, and tugging a tee shirt over his head. “I’ll bring it back with me.” He headed off towards the bathroom, while Giles thought seriously about the Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan until he had reduced his erection enough for his own turn in the bathroom to be reasonably brief. He had just decided that it was worth the attempt, when he heard a squawk of shock and dismay from the kitchen. There were definitely benefits to having a squire and not having to do everything himself - Xander, obviously, had discovered the disadvantage of stone floors: through the winter, they were distressingly cold on the feet. Giles had originally managed a week in the cottage before deciding that watching his budget was one thing, but frostbitten toes were quite another, and driving thirty miles to a town large enough to have a source of slippers.

It occurred to him that a large leather soled slipper applied to Xander's rump would sting like the blazes, and he made a note to see if Xander would like it. Not that it would matter much if he didn’t, he told himself cheerfully, he would do it anyway because _he_ would like it. His conscience raised an eyebrow; he rolled his eyes at it. Oh all right: if Xander didn’t like it, he would restrict it to matters requiring punishment.

That required some more consideration of the Seven Cryptical Books.

He found himself remarkably optimistic; it was a surprise. He wasn’t stupid: he had known, intellectually, that he had been skirting the verges of depression for most of a year, but somehow he had never quite made it to _doing_ anything about it. Possibly if he’d still had the Watcher health insurance he would have done.

Possibly if he’d still had the Watcher health insurance he wouldn’t have _needed_ to do anything.

He was _not_ stupid. He didn’t believe that a cuddle and some good sex was a cure for depression. He had no doubt that Xander's training would be difficult and frustrating for both of them. But nonetheless, there it was: he felt good and he hadn't felt good in the morning since he couldn't remember when.

Xander elbowed the door open and came in, armed with the first aid kit, coffee, and a plate heavily laden with toast.

“I don’t care where you eat your breakfast but if you get crumbs in my bed or butter on my sheets, I’ll turn you over my knee and warm your arse.”

Xander passed over one of the mugs. “This isn’t my breakfast. Half of it is yours.”

He buried his nose in the mug, eyes closing. Real coffee. Xander had brought him _real_ coffee. All right, it wasn’t one of the types he really liked, but it didn’t taste of soap. “That was kind, but I don’t usually eat breakfast.”

Xander set the plate in the middle of the bed, and climbed in. “You used to. We used to have breakfast together. You ate oatmeal and that cereal that looks like the stuff you feed Ivo, and...”

“And you ate things flavoured with chocolate that you heated in my toaster. I remember. I was always mortally afraid that one of my visitors would discover them in the cupboard and assume that they were mine.”

“I said I would eat healthy if you would eat at all. This is just toast. I’m not having jelly, so you _are_ having toast.”

“ _Healthily_. And jam, not jelly.”

“Do you want it? I bought some.”

He shook his head, his mouth full of toast. How did he come to be having this conversation? “I only like marmalade in the morning.”

Xander made a face. “We can get some if you want but I don’t really like the stuff here. It’s way too bitter.”

“Sharper the better,” said Giles with relish. “But we can get one of the sweet ones for you if you like. They do exist, even in Britain.”

“Good. What about oatmeal?”

Giles fixed him with a glare. “Call it that here and you’ll probably be stoned as a heretic. Oatmeal is only the ingredient. What you eat is porridge.”

“What _you_ eat. If I learn to cook it, will you eat it?”

He nodded; it seemed easier than arguing, or pointing out that Xander _had_ cooked it, repeatedly, on Coblan. Xander pushed the toast plate at him again, and meekly he lifted another slice. “I would point out that I’m supposed to be the Master in this relationship.”

Xander frowned. “You are. It’s just that I’m supposed to keep you all – well, like looking after the weapons.”

He choked on his toast. “Oiled and polished?”

Xander sniggered. “Ready for use. You always insisted on cleaning so _much_ stuff. It was worse than being in the army. Sunnydale had a cadet unit; my dad... he used to nag at me to sign up, but he despised the sort of kid who did. There were a couple of kids I knew who joined. They seemed to spend all their time cleaning stuff. I never wanted to do that; then I met you and I ended up doing it anyway. But I never wanted to join the army.”

“And you’ve done _that_ now too.”

Xander cocked his head. “What’s with the huh?”

“You’re in the army now, as of last night.”

It was probably fortunate that Xander had all but finished his coffee; as it was, the last mouthful went down the wrong way and Giles had to pound him on the back while he coughed.

“No, _what’s_ with the huh?”

“Not in absolute fact, of course, but effectively, you’ve joined the army.”

“I know you’re joking, Giles, but funny? Not so much.”

“Well, I know it’s not official, but if we can ever persuade the Council to see sense, you’ll be...” He wound down: Xander was staring at him, mouth open. “You haven’t read that far yet?”

“What far?” asked Xander weakly.

“About the history of the Watchers.”

Xander's head turned slowly left and right.

“You know about the military orders, though? The Knights Templar? The Hospitallers?”

“Kinda,” said Xander uneasily. “I read some of those books, you know, the ones about the conspiracy theories?”

Giles snorted. “Bloody ridiculous. It used to amuse me that the books about governmental or religious conspiracies always started with the Knights Templar, who were about as dull and non-conspiratorial as you can get. Johnny-Come-Latelies, too, for all they were so proud of their history. The Knights of the Order of the Vision, on the other hand...” He cocked an eyebrow at Xander, whose mouth was hanging open. “Or as they were vulgarly known, the Watchers, managed to keep ourselves far enough out of view that we essentially _did_ run a major conspiracy, even when we had to contrive a reason for the active Watcher to be knighted. We already had arrangements to make female Watchers into Dames of the Order at the time when most of the military orders were still explaining to their members that boys weren’t the same as girls, and that they should leave the girls alone. Buffy’s first Watcher, Merrick, caused a certain amount of trouble because he wasn’t a British national. I don’t know what they did about Sam Zabuto, I don’t actually know where he was from. It might have been one of the UK dependencies, I don’t think I ever heard. But I remember Quentin Travers being enormously pissed off about having to do the paperwork for Merrick’s knighthood, and even more pissed off because he was an _American_. Even a Frenchman wouldn’t have been so bad.”

“Knight... knighthood? Giles, he can’t have, we don’t have them.”

He shook his head. “George Bush is a Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath. The Queen did it.”

“No!”                                 

“If she isn’t your Head of State, you don’t get the accolade but you get the title. So Buffy’s Watcher didn’t get to be Sir Whatever-it-was Merrick, but, but he was entitled to sign himself Whatsit Merrick, KV.”

“KV,” repeated Xander, weakly.

“Knight Commander of the Order of the Vision. The, the active Watcher is always knighted. I believe it caused some unpleasantness between Wesley and his father. Roger was always inclined to jealousy.”

He thought that Xander was caught between believing him – because why would he lie? – and disbelieving him – because it sounded so unlikely.

“Sir Wesley?”

He nodded.

“And... Sir Rupert?”

He nodded again, his mouth quirking.  

“Oh, wow.”

“So we have to think of, of some way of getting you accepted by the Council, so that you can be Alexander Harris, KV.”

Xander snorted. “Yeah, likely. If they drummed you out and took your title away, they’re hardly likely... what?”

He was shaking his head. “It’s very difficult to remove an honour. It _can_ be done – Anthony Blunt was stripped of his knighthood for spying – but it’s rare. If it's hard to find a discreet reason to give the active Watcher a knighthood, it's almost impossible to find a good explanation for taking it away again.”

Xander absorbed this, his eyes widening. “So you’re still...?”

He nodded again. The toast plate went flying as he confirmed it, from flat on his back under twelve stone of enthusiastic Xander.

“I honestly am Wicked Sir Rupert.”


End file.
